


Sceptre

by thirdholmes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Eventual relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of angst okay, M/M, MI6, Minor Character Deaths, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Spectre, Sceptre - Freeform, Trust Issues, blatant misunderstanding of how technology works, for the love of god don’t steal my OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-04-18 23:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: When James Bond returns to MI6, persued by the shadow of the organization he’d thought to be destroyed, he finds himself in need of the people he’d forsaken and discovers how difficult it is to suture the wounds of time. His disappearance was not without damage, and he must repair his burning bridges to preserve his ties to the people he holds most dear, most importantly regaining the trust of the man who loves him, whilst fighting to prevent a catastrophe of a global scale.





	1. And on the Third Day

The return of James Bond was both expected and unprecedented. Resurrection had become almost a bad habit for the agent and everyone waited with bated breath for days, weeks, and months for him to stumble through the doors licking his wounds like always. Dr. Descartes would joke about how instead of betting where he would be shot next, they may as well play pin-the-bullet-on-the-Bond. It was a surprise when the lucrative MI6 betting pool dared not touch the concept of when he would come back. The odds were stacked too precariously, like a building on the verge of collapse.

The facts were blatantly obvious. Bond was a rogue man, a gun attached to an arm that he alone controlled, as unpredictable as lightning.

But lightning was bound to strike. And it did.

It was no more than a year after his vanishing that he’d been conjured again, the clouds parting and letting him strike home, sprinting through the streets of London to his mark. The new MI6 headquarters on the banks of the Thames across the husk of its predecessor stood tall and strong, a paladin in its build. A haven. The place for the persecuted and the persecutors, the hearth and the flame. Pain and promise.

He was shot in the back the second he crossed the threshold.

The glass door the bullet sailed through shattered, shards raining down with the ferocity of barbed hail, and alarms began to blare, the once silent lobby now pregnant with panic.

Armed agents ran out from the building to return the fire to Bond’s assailants, the sound of cars screeching and pedestrians screaming creating an awful cacophony to James’ already ringing ears. Someone turned him over to address the exit wound, not gently enough and pain lanced through his body. Another person called for R.

“He’s been shot!”

“Very well spotted, Agent Rohl,” a familiar voice said dryly, tinged with urgency as his feet sounded closer and closer on the tiles. “Another observation of the obvious, it is indeed a man. Someone give him a commendation.”

“Is it a civilian?” another voice inquired. “Wonder what could’ve happened.”

“He isn’t, and to answer your second question I suspect we’ll find out as soon as you get this agent to the hospital wing,” the familiar voice said again. Now he recognized it as Arthur Descartes. Dr. Descartes. Arthur. R. Q’s best friend. Q- where was he-?

A wave of nausea suddenly swept over him, dragging up images that had settled to the bottom of his mind, the silt being stirred up by the familiarity surrounding him, instigated by the letter, the name, the person behind it.

When was the last time Bond saw his quartermaster? Had it truly been he that James caught a glimpse of Borough Market months ago? He’d never know the answer to that, but he did know the last time he’d spoken to him. The day he left.

The cold press of the car key into his hand. Nervous eyes not meeting his like they used to. A goodbye so curt it might as well have been a dismissal.

_“The tank is full. It’ll drive you off the edge of the earth if that’s what you’d like. God knows it’s doesn’t matter, there’s no finding you wherever it is you run to. Good luck with your new life.”_

James didn’t even get the chance to respond before Q had turned on his heel and disappeared too quickly through a door.

He saw Eve in the lift the second he left Q’s workshop. Her eyes widened but the door did so to slowly and he had slipped away, pursued only by the echo of his friend’s voice down the hall. Calling for him.

He hadn’t even stopped for her. Because the temptress was waiting outside.

He’d slighted and disowned the two closest people in his life, the ones that risked life and limb and career for his sorry arse time and time again. A clockmaker’s shop wouldn’t be able to keep up. All for a woman who ended up stabbing him in the back.

Or, rather, calling up someone to shoot him there instead.

“Agent?”

“Yes.” Arthur said, and James forced his eyes open against the pain to look at the man staring down at him, his features wiped clean as a slate. No emotion, just freckles and glasses. But there was something in his pale eyes. Concern. And perhaps not for him. Still those green eyes locked into his. “Welcome back, James Bond.”

This triggered a choir of excited and curious whispers as people began to gather around, getting a good look at their disgraced hero, their false idol, the great double-o seven.

James parted his lips to say something to Arthur, but whatever it was died in his throat. It would’ve sounded pitiful anyways. His shoulder was doing enough vocalizing to make up for his lack of it, the wounded flesh screaming in hurt. He coughed, and the taste of copper stained his teeth.

“AGENT DOWN!” someone screamed outside.

Arthur’s head jerked up and he waved someone to go attend to the emergency, not leaving James. “Someone inform M immediately, and make sure that two gurneys are coming,” he ordered, Rohl nodding sharply and tearing his wide-eyed stare from Bond towards the stairwell he ran to.

Arthur raised him into a sitting position, shaking off his own vest and wrapping it around James’ shoulder, staunching the willing flow of life that was soaking through Bond’s jacket.

“Piss off an ex, did you, Bond?” Arthur mumbled, tying off the makeshift bandage and pressing two fingers to his stubbled neck, checking his pulse.

A smile split across Bond’s face, his former grimace losing to it. Was he so predictable? “Something like that. It’s good to see you, R.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes yourself,” Arthur said, scanning his face. “I’d say we’re happy to see you but the circumstances make me hesitant.”

James laughed, the sense of brief normalcy like a drop of water in the most barren terrain. “Things never change.”

“Oh, I think they do.”

He didn’t elaborate any further.

A gurney arrived and Arthur helped hoist him into the cot, the slim man deceptively strong. Agitating the wound made him cry out in agony, pain tearing through his veins, hot, searing pain- and then, as if a fuse been snipped, everything went dark.

Shock waves ran through the institution as the epicenter was escorted to the medical bay, carried on the minds of oblivious messengers, reaching through floor of concrete and metal, flesh and sinew, shaking the basement Q-Branch.

“He’s back.”

Q looked up from his self assigned task of soldering wires together to stare curiously at Eve, cocking his head to the side. With his glasses he appeared increasingly owlish as he did this, something which Eve found rather endearing.

“He?” Q asked, brow furrowing. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Eve sighed and moved around his desk to set her hand on his shoulder, the gesture capturing his attention. “Bond. He’s come back.”

A short shock seemed to run through Q, paralyzing his limbs. Before he could help it, his arm went slack and the soldering iron clattered from his fingers, striking the hard ground. Along the room, people looked up from their work, startled by the metallic sound.

“Q?” Eve’s voice became edged with concern, sturdy and pointed as flint. Trying to ignite a spark of a response in him. “Q, are you okay?”

“I-” Q’s eyes became spotted with black and Eve’s hand deserted him to unplug the tool he dropped, but it had already scorched the concrete. He scrabbled for her arm and she reached for him in turn, steadying him. “No.”

The truth felt good. But that was the extent of it. None of this felt right. The nausea that had made itself his second skin became exponentially more suffocating and the hollow pang in the cage of his ribs refused to be ignored any longer. Christ, he could barely stand.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Eve swore under her breath, sliding his glasses off and tucking them into her coat pocket, studying his eyes. “Sweetheart, you promised me you’d try. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last-” Last night? That didn’t sound accurate. There was no last night in his memory, the time just sort of stretched on in a continuous segment. “The night before last.” Q guessed.

“Eating then,” Eve ventured. “The last time you ate.”

“You took me out to that cafe for the lunch, the one I used to go to with-” _him_.

Eve visibly blanched, and Q felt a sting of guilt for causing the worry painting her face.

“Russ, that was three days ago. We went right before I left for my mission in Ukraine, the one _I just returned from_.” Moneypenny emphasized, shocked. “You haven’t taken care of yourself the entire time I’ve been gone.”

“Oh.” Q’s voice became very small to his own ears.

Three days. Where had that time gone? He didn’t think he’d even left the workshop.

And now…

And now James Bond had returned.

“We need to get you to Dr. Descartes,” Moneypenny said urgently, supporting him.

“Quite- quite right.” A headache erupted in his skull, the stress of it all becoming a bit too much for him to take in.

So his body decided to cut him some slack.

He collapsed in Moneypenny’s arms. 


	2. In the Blue Morning

The first thing James heard when he woke was urgent and hushed words off to the side. He could feel the sluggish effects of some form of sedative lingering in him, allowing enough energy to wake, but movement was near impossible. Just as well, seeing as how he’d been shot not too long ago.

Two figures were hunched over the bed beside his, an IV drip leading down to a pale, thin arm, the metal tree of the stand bearing the fruit of two fluid bags.

“...and I’ll let you know as soon as I’m aware that he’s awake.” Bond heard Arthur Descartes assure the second person. “He’s slept through the night soundly enough but I think that’s just the morphine.”

“Morphine again? We can’t let him get dependent on that.” It was Eve.

Guilt felt like a punch and Bond quickly shut his eyes, slowing his breaths and pretending to still be asleep. He wasn’t ready to face her just yet.

 _Coward_.

He didn’t know where the voice came from in his head, but it was right. Bond opened his eyes just a sliver, enough to see what was happening.

“I understand that, Eve, I truly do. You know I wouldn’t prescribe it to him,” Arthur continued. “But you yourself said you weren’t comfortable with over the counter drugs.”

“I don’t feel safe with him self administering any form of medication,” Eve defended, looking down worriedly at her friend. “If he doesn’t forget to take it he may overdo it, and despite accidental overdose being my main concern I can’t ignore deliberate. He’s the one that stopped refilling his antidepressants anyway.”

Bond blinked, working his way through the haze, and watched as Arthur shifted, his leg no longer blocking the patient’s face. It became even clearer when Arthur brushed the coffee colored locks of hair from his brow.

 _Q_.

A sharp ringing struck James’ ears and words he’d dismissed earlier presented themselves.

“AGENT DOWN!”

Agent down.

Q.

“No,” James mumbled slowly, reaching out for him with his good arm, trying to push himself up on his elbow and groaning in pain as he agitated the wound. “No, not him-”

His words caught the attention of both doctor and agent.

“Oh, Christ,” Arthur took his hand from Q’s hair and hurried to Bond, checking the morphine drip. “This should be higher, you shouldn’t be awake Bond, you’ve only just gotten out of surgery hours ago.”

“It’s not him, tell me he hasn’t been-” Bond didn’t even want to fathom it, he merely gestured at his shoulder. The guilt felt like the questing tide lapping at his ankles, threatening to swallow him. If he’d been shot because of him-

God, he only brought trouble didn’t he?

Descartes’ eyes widened. “No, no, nothing of the sort. Don’t concern yourself at the moment, that’ll only make your condition worse.”

“Who’s been shot?”

He looked with mild distress to Eve who began to make her way over and he smoothed back his already ruffled ginger hair, sighing. “Agent Calum Yates. He’s dead, unfortunately. Took him to the proper hospital on the account that it was much too serious for us. The man never made it out of surgery.”

Arthur made to turn up the morphine dial and Bond swung his hand out, batting his away. When he tried again, an indignant sound as the preamble, James held his wrist and made eye contact with Eve, pleading.

“What’s happened to him?” He looked back at Q, face smoothed by sleep, the stress he’d taken on from the work washed away, unblemished. It wasn’t right that any harm had come to him.

Eve pressed her lips in a thin line, staring at him intently. Her ever keen eyes were analytical, searching and cataloguing. Solving. Like he was a puzzle she was trying to understand. Of course. She thought he knew him. And then he’d gone and left. He didn’t even know himself because of that.

“Please tell me he’s okay.” James tried.

Eve broke their stare, examining her shoes. “He will be, I hope. Three days without sleep and food, and then the bombshell of his agent returning out of the blue.” She crossed her arms. Not casual. Defensive. Guarded. “Shock will do that to a man who’s already taken ill.”

“Bond, I give you my word that Q is not gravely injured.” Arthur wrenched his hand away, finally dialing up the morphine. “And your concern is duly noted. Better rest now, I’m afraid that this next day is not going to be much easier than the last. That’s saying something seeing as you were nearly murdered in the foyer then.”

Bond’s lips moved numbly, blindly trying to catch hold of words to deliver, but they were evading him as the sweet syrup of drug induced sleep coated him.

It was hours before he woke again. Bluish early morning light wandered through the windows of the infirmary and he knew it to be just before dawn. It just felt right, and he was usually correct about those intuitions.

The pain in his shoulder had significantly decreased and the bed had been elevated into a sitting position, allowing him to tilt his head to the side and examine the other patient with a better view.

Q was sitting as well, but he also had Eve’s arm circled around his shoulder, pulling him a bit more forward so he could accept the glass of water she held out for him, his other hand taking the small paper cup of pills that sat in his lap.

“Have you got it, sweetheart?”

 _Sweetheart_.

James observed through half lidded eyes, sudden struck by the fact that he’d missed an entire year of their lives. How close had the two grown in that time? Surely they weren’t-

_Why did the concept of Eve and Q as a couple disconcert him?_

Q nodded weakly. “Yes.”

“R says to take all of these.” Eve said quietly, using the soft voice that betrayed a maternal air in her words, putting James’ turmoil at ease. “All the vitamins you need to restore.”

He chuckled, but it was feeble, devoid of any real humor. Then, he examined the cup dubiously. “Does dear Arthur want me to choke?”

“You know he does, he’s itching to overthrow you and assume command of Q-Branch.” Eve winked conspiratorially and Q laughed for real this time, a short, genuine sound.

The quartermaster tilted his head slightly and threw back the cup of pills. The ward was so quiet that James could hear them clatter against his teeth before being chased down by the water.

He looked so frail. When Bond first met him he seemed like the picture of youth and vitality, the most malleable of metal that would just bend back into place after any upset. Now he appeared brittle, rusted. The familiar rings under his eyes from lack of sleep looked like bruises, punched in like holes in a mask. His curly, voluminous hair was flat and stringy like a stray cat’s, and there was a sickly sheen to his skin.

“Arthur took a blood sample while you were out,” Moneypenny added, lowering her friend back down against the raised back of the bed. “And it’s determined that you’ve become anemic. You’re deficient in half a dozen vitamins and you’re lucky you haven’t shut down from malnutrition. I can’t keep playing mother hen if I know that you’re not making any effort.”

Q dragged his hands down his face, looking naked without his glasses. “I’m sorry, Moneypenny.”

Her face turned sad and she brushed his hair from his forehead, causing his eyes to flutter shut. “You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m calling your aunt Siobhan in a bit and telling her to refill your Prozac.”

Q shook his head, sighing. “It doesn’t work.”

“Trazodone, then.”

He shook his head again. “It knocks me out, I need to stay awake-”

“No.” Eve set a hand on his shoulder. “No, you need to sleep. You need to have an iota of energy to feed and hydrate yourself. You’re lucky I don’t start dosing you up with tranquilizers whenever I decide you look too peaky.”

If at all possible, Q grew paler. “Trazodone it is.”

“Smart lad.” Eve placed two fingers against her lips and pressed the kiss onto his cheek. “Go back to sleep. Your branch can go a few more hours without their leader.”

“I-” Q seemed to be about to protest before yawning enormously. “Oh, all right.”

“Sleep.” Eve arranged the large, soft blanket so that it fit his thing frame snugly and comfortably. The younger man was out in seconds.

James had just closed his eyes fully before she spoke again.

“Done spying on us now, are we?”

His eyes flew open and he almost began searching for a fourth person in the room before realizing that she was addressing him.

“I didn’t think my input would be welcome,” Bond replied in a hoarse voice.

“You thought right.” Moneypenny moved around Q’s bed to his side, passing him a glass of water from his nightstand, flicking the straw so that it faced him. He took it with steady hands and drained half of it before giving it back.

“What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing, Bond?” Eve hissed, setting the glass down so hard that water splashed out onto her hand. “You come running back in here like it’s some safe haven with hell’s hounds on your heels? After a year of absolutely no contact? Did we mean nothing to you?”

Bond knew that she may as well have slapped him across the face. But there was no fault to her words. Except one thing.

“You all mean so much to me.” James tested out, the raw sentiment tasting foreign on his tongue. “And I know that my disappearance was no way of showing it. I was selfish. I saw a way out, I saw a bright light at the end of the tunnel, and I took that route, not caring about the mess I left behind. Seems I was walking into a bigger mess because the woman I thought loved me decided to try and murder me. Pity, since I did have reservations for a restaurant tomorrow night. That’s why we even came back to London.”

He felt exponentially lighter after that sudden confession, the truth pouring out of him like a willing pitcher. A career built on lies and yet the truth was the strongest weapon. James wanted to bleed it out of him, say everything he ever meant to, get he stilled himself, instead searching Eve’s eyes for a sign of something, anything even remotely resembling forgiveness. Instead, what he saw was conflict.

“Swann tried to kill you.” Not a question. She was searching for clarification. Bond granted it without hesitation, nodding once.

Moneypenny let out a breath. “Well, then.”

Bond eyed her skeptically. “That’s all? Nothing further to add?”

“Only that Tanner owes me ten quid.” She replied nonchalantly, heading towards the door.

James had to stifle an incredulous laugh, a reflex to cover the pit of disappointment that had been digging itself inside him ever since his ex-lover had attempted to poison his drink at the hotel. Since she pulled a gun on him after the first plan was aborted, the agent recognizing the tainted nature immediately. Since he threw himself out of the window and onto the fire escape, henchmen pursuing him through the city that had become his home. “You bet on our relationship ending?”

Eve stopped with her fingers brushing the handle, a flash of a smirk giving him the tiniest fraction of hope that something of their old friendship was still there. “Oh, don’t condescend me, we all did. Tanner’s mistake was that he didn’t think her betrayal would be so soon. We’ll hear all about it later, though, seeing as how M’s already called a meeting. Arthur will fetch you when it’s time.”

“It’s none of MI6’s business.” James protested. This was personal for him and he wanted to settle it for himself.

Eve’s softening expression turned to stone once again. “A better man than yourself gave his life to save your sorry arse. His wife and two children have to find out why he never came home last night. You brought this here. _You made it our business.”_

And then she was gone. 


	3. To Scorn a Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve been thinking that people have been far too upset with Bond, you’ll find out now what the reasons are behind it. Also apologies to Q, my fictional son, for all the pain he’s gone through. I’m a terrible teen dad

After dozing off for a short period, James awoke for the final time that day, finding the hospital wing peaceful and quiet, save for the sounds of London traffic outside. The pain from his wound had significantly improved and the bandages changed.The painkillers had made his mind feel like a fog covered moor which was a sign of sorts since he had built up a tolerance for them during his years as an agent. His head was far cleared now. He felt good. Better. 

Looking across the short gap between their beds, Bond was surprised to see Q awake. His skin looked far clearer and his hair was slightly damp at the edges, otherwise restored to their soft, wavy mess, the obvious result of a recent shower, thumbs typing up a storm across the screen of a phone.

 _His_ phone.

“What are you doing with my phone?” Bond asked, his lips curling with the beginning of a smile. Running through his mind were memories of the dozens of times Q had nicked his phone without permission to use for whatever reason. If he’d misplaced it, left it at home, or decided to take it apart, he’d borrow James’. It got to the point where Bond told him he didn’t need to ask anymore, to just take it if he needed it, something which obviously hadn’t been forgotten. 

Q’s shoulders twitched, a flinch, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. James immediately felt apologetic but Q recovered almost seamlessly.

“Moneypenny confiscated mine after I-” he didn’t take his eyes off the screen but James could still see them tighten. “Well, she took it. Didn’t want any distractions during my recovery. Not to worry, though, Bond, I’m not looking through your dirty messages to Miss Swann.”

“What makes you assume that they’re dirty?” Bond raised an eyebrow, following the joke. “I’ll have you know I was a top marks poet in composition class.”

Q snorted. “I might actually believe that considering how many times you’ve sweet-talked me into providing you with improved equipment.”

James chuckled. “It’s good to see you, Q. I’ve missed you.”

He was afraid that he said the wrong thing because the smile dropped from the quartermaster’s face. God, was it going to be like this with everyone?

“What’s are you doing on my phone, then?” Bond tried for a change of subject.

Q seemed relieved and picked up easily. “Finishing up some work. I have a mission proposal that I was hoping to send double-” he stopped himself before he could finish the identification. “-an agent on. I’d like to get it to M before the meeting in an hour. I doubt Eve wants me to attend but she’d have to drug me to get me to stay out of it.”

Warmth kindled in his chest and James felt a slight surge of happiness at regaining some sense of normalcy again. Q hadn’t changed much at all, it seemed. At least not where it mattered. He was still the cheeky, incorrigible boffin, albeit a bit more defensive and worse for wear. Nothing that couldn’t be remedied.

Hopefully.

“Is it too much of me to expect life to be easy and get off on an ‘I’m sorry for abandoning you’?” Bond asked, half joking, half hopeful.

Q paused his rapid typing and finally looked at him, erudite eyes disassembling him from behind glasses. Eyes told much of a story, and it seemed that Q’s had pages torn out of it that James couldn’t read.

“It’s too much.” Q decided at last, much to Bond’s disappointment. “But,” he looked around the room carefully. “If you can sneak me back to Q-Branch I’ll give you back your phone and I might just consider forgiving you a bit earlier than expected.”

“Is this bribery?” Bond inquired, bemused.

“Plain and simple.” Q responded. “I’d walk myself but I’m afraid I might fall over- oh, you don’t get to give me that look, half of it is your fault anyways. Come on, we haven’t got all morning, Arthur’s due back soon.”

“You do realize,” James said slowly. “That I’ve just been shot.”

Q blinked. His face twisted into something that looked apologetic before transforming into disappointment. “I see. Very well. I’ll leave you to play the invalid and take my chances. See you later, Bond.”

James almost let him go, thinking that it would be far easier for him to make his own escape unnoticed with Q gone. Bond wanted to hit himself for having that thought.

“Give me a minute to change,” James said quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his old clothes, not even giving a second glance to the hole in the shoulder and the large crimson stain. “I’m a poor choice of companion if you wanted this to be entirely inconspicuous.”

“Believe me, if there was someone else present I’d ask them.” Q got out of his bed, tucking James’ phone into the pocket of his trousers and assisting the former agent in pulling the screen around him to give some privacy as he changed. “Here,” he said, shrugging off his tweed jacket and throwing it over the barrier, approximating where Bond was by his silhouette. “Use this to cover the blood.”

James snorted, folding it over his lap as he buttoned up his shirt. “I get that it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other but I hope you understand that there’s no way this is fitting me.”

“Of course I do, I’m not an idiot. Just hang it over your shoulder or something. God above, I can’t be the only innovative one here.” Bond could see him wringing his hands, clearly exasperated.

“Well in all fairness, you are paid to be.” he said, finishing up. He was used to dressing while wounded. One of his many unrequited talents he’d picked up over the years. Bond pushed the folding screen back towards the wall and gave Q a crooked smile, one which was sadly not returned in the slightest.

“Let’s go,” was all he said, striding towards the door.

They made it to the lift without much difficulty, although, as they waited for the car to come up, Q’s knees buckled and he reached for James’ arm to steady himself. As soon as James wrapped his hands around his elbow to help him, Q jerked back as if stung, which Bond wasn’t sure how to interpret. He decided to respectfully take a step back and give the man his space which seemed to be the right move because his shoulders relaxed.

“I’m sorry.” Q said in a quiet voice, fidgeting with his glasses. “I’m- I’m not used to it being you.”

James forced a small smile. “How long is it going to take for you to trust me again?”

Q blinked, as if he himself hadn’t even contemplated the answer to that question. The doors finally parted and Bond ducked his head to avoid making eye contact with an agent. The woman breezed past them, clearly in a hurry and not in the mood to accost two infirmary escapees.

“Perhaps…” Q said, biting his chapped lower lip and pressing the button that would take them to the basement. “Perhaps when I stop feeling like you’re going to run away the moment people take their eyes off you.”

 _Shit. He noticed_. Then again, Q was nothing if not perceptive.

“I don’t want to leave you all again, but there’s something I want to finish on my own. I’ll come home after that,” James vowed. “I promise. You can yell at me all you want about tech, the car-”

This caught Q’s notice and blue eyes fixed on blue, widening a fraction. “What have you done to the car?”

They arrived to the basement branch then, saving James from explaining that he’d left it in Germany at his and Madeleine’s house and that he had no idea what had become of it in the last forty eight hours.

“I’m really quite irritated,” Q revealed to him as they stepped into the workshop. “They rebuilt the headquarters above Q-Branch instead of leaving me in peace. I think they like to have more control over my operations here. Don’t want any loose cannons.” The last sentence was definitely directed towards James.

Pretending to not have heard, he followed Q into the cavernous room, gaze raking over the familiar stations of agents at their computers or fixing vehicles, collaborating on blueprints spread across tables, ends held down by stacks of books or large batteries.

“Q!” someone called, halting James’ examination of the workshop.

Both of them looked to the right, still walking towards Q’s desk which seemed like an altar at the end of the aisle, the stations merely pews in the grand cathedral of Q-Branch. A woman was jogging towards them, clad in flexible looking leather boots, black slacks, a dark blue blouse and a suit jacket. Half accountant, half professional assassin, that was the description her clothes provided. If she didn’t seem like a double-o agent, she at least _looked_ the part. Wavy, light brown hair the color of twice strained tea and eyes that looked like coffee.

Suffice to say, she was beautiful. Under other circumstances he would have wasted no time flirting with her but something about Q’s presence made him rethink that habit.

Q’s face broke into an easy smile as the woman approached them and the two embraced, clearly well acquainted.

“Moneypenny was about to put me on house arrest,” she laughed, cupping his face and angling it as if checking for injuries. “Wouldn’t let me go up to the hospital wing, said you weren’t to be disturbed. They’ve let you go now, then, I assume? Or is this your crutch?”

It took a moment for Bond to realize that he was the so-called ‘crutch’, and he exchanged a polite nod with the agent. “More like partners in crime.”

“Cas, this is Bond.” Q introduced, steering the conversation away as if afraid someone would overhear and tell him off. “Bond, meet Agent Holt.”

Holt’s eyelids flicked up in surprise and her lips formed a small ‘o’ of realization. “Oh my God, you’re _him_.”

Bond glanced at Q. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

Holt shook her head with a honey smile. “Nothing ill meant, I assure you. It’s just that you’re quite the legend among the newer agents.”

“And you’re a double-oh?”

Holt nodded. “Cassandra Holt, I’m- with all due respect- the new double-oh seven.”

This time when Bond looked at Q, he kept staring, incredulous. He felt as if he’d been punched solidly in the gut, and Q knew the reason why he’d been struck so brutally.

The quartermaster wasn’t even looking at him, focusing more on the broguing of his shoes, studying them with such a level of intensity that James half expected him to pull out his borrowed phone and write a full length research paper on them.

“You _replaced_ me?”

Q’s head snapped up, face contorted with anger, the expression so out of place on the man that it actually caught James off guard.“For God’s sake, you don’t get to be sore about this, Bond! You vacated your position without notice and it was promptly filled by the most capable person in our ensemble. You waltz in here larger than bloody life an expect things to pick up just as you left off as if you’ve been out for lunch instead of missing in action for a whole damn year! You think you’re a legend, untouchable, that we’ll have kept your seat nice and warm for you after all this time, but the truth of it is that we all had to move on. You can either do the same or whine about this like a child. This is pathetic, even for you.”

Bond was stunned into silence for a moment by the sudden outburst which seemed to draw all the remaining strength from him. “Pathetic?”

Cassandra Holt deserved credit for not looking uncomfortable in the slightest. “Well. As much as I’ve enjoyed this marital spat of yours, I’d best be heading to that meeting. Nice to meet you, Bond, and Q, always a pleasure my friend.”

She made to leave when the doors to the lift parted to reveal Arthur, the doctor marching towards the trio and looking incredibly irked as he did so. He spared a smile to greet Holt but once it was returned he faced the two men and his expression soured.

“You!” he jabbed a finger at Bond, still walking towards him, voice echoing through the workshop. Half the agents paused their assignments, turning to see what was going on. “Get back to medical before I string you from the top of the building by your lacy knickers. I’m not in the mood for any coercion or excuses so just. Bloody. Move it. I’ll see you there in a minute, and if I find that you’ve gone anywhere else I’ll follow through on my promise. Q here will more than happily provide me with the CCTV footage. Speaking of whom,” Arthur looked at Q and his face immediately softened. He took his friend’s wrist and checked his pulse before digging a pen light from his white coat pocket to check his eyes as well. “You shouldn’t be back at work yet, your body needs to replenish itself and I still have an injection to give you since your immune system probably isn’t up to scratch.” His attention shifted to James who had not moved an inch. “I’m sorry, do I need to check your ears while I’m at it?”

That was it.

“I can’t get a break from you lot, can I?” James snapped, glowering at him. He didn’t want to lose his temper but the way he was being treated was testing his patience. He understood that he’d done wrong but surely it didn’t merit this amount of hostility. “Ever since I got back it’s just been constant hounding and dirty looks, and frankly I’ve had enough of it right now.”

“Very well spotted, Bond.” Arthur said cooly. “I’m sure that later we’ll all sit in a circle and beg for your royal pardon. Q, I hope you’ll forgive me for informing this less than enlightened gentleman that the reason we’re all so well and truly pissed at him is the fact that after he dropped off the face of the earth and we found out that Spectre was still very much in operation, you worked yourself to the bone to try and locate or contact him in order to warn him that he was potentially in danger. Someone broke in here and used Bond’s credentials to take Ernst Stavro Blofeld out of custody and we haven’t seen him since.”

Descartes paused for a moment and tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “Who has ties to both you and Blofeld and would’ve been able to get close enough and get tour credentials? Oh, I don’t know, perhaps the strange Austrian woman, the daughter of a murder, a girl who committed murder before she could read chapter books.”

He felt as if he’d just been buried under a ton of rubble, the weight of that information slowly crushing him as anxiety built up in his veins. This couldn’t possibly be true. 

“Blofeld escaped?” The very words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Blofeld was free, and it was _his_ fault.

This wasn’t humbling, this was borderline humiliating. James wanted to scream at the ceiling for the pure purpose of having something other than himself to be angry at. He now understood why his allies had been a far cry from kind to him. Because he couldn’t control his proclivity towards vices, because he had played the rogue man and avoided proper channels of resignation, Madeleine Swann had stolen his card before he burned it and set a mass murderer and international criminal back into the world.

Putting innumerable lives at risk. 

“Yes,” R said, the edge in his voice now sharper than a razor. “and that means you should listen close, Bond, because everything you’ve done has had repercussions for us. Agents have died and gone missing trying to find this man. Calum Yates didn’t have to die last night, Q didn’t have to have a seizure ten months ago and collapse just short of half a dozen times in the months after, so the very least you could do, James Herbert Bond, is shut your mouth and follow orders for once in your life! Now go!”

Q stared at Arthur, this being the first time he heard him speak with such aggression. He’d always known his friend to be exceptionally protective of him, a very mutual condition, actually, but he’d always taken the calmer approach to things as well. Seeing Arthur advance on James just then had been the equivalent of watching a car crash in slow motion.

He couldn’t be upset with Descartes for telling Bond the truth, but he hated the look that James gave him because of it. The sadness and pity was so out of place on him and it felt almost infantilizing. Like Q was a child failing at being self sufficient and Bond felt sorry for him.

Or perhaps he genuinely felt remorseful.

Whatever the case was, James placed a hand on Q’s forearm and shrugged off the quartermaster’s jacket, handing it back to him gently.

“Keep the phone for now,” was all he said before obeying Arthur and walking back to the lift.

Q was grateful for the lack of an apology. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle one.

Arthur watched Bond go before he visibly deflated, the slight redness of his face from the outburst obscuring his lighter freckles. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but it had to be done. He needed to know and I’ve been waiting a great deal of time to yell at him about being an idiot about all this. My apologies.”

Cas shrugged, perfectly casual. Q admired the way that the agent could be so composed. She compartmentalized her emotions efficiently when they threatened to even verge on too much. “I, for one, do think that you overreacted just a smidge, but I don’t know him as well as you do. That being said, Q nearly lost it, and Arthur- well, you looked two skips away from an aneurism or something. He must be an irritating person.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Arthur concurred.

“But he’s also rather charming,” she admitted.

Q had to stop himself from voicing his agreement. He wasn’t personally upset with James. He accepted responsibility for his own actions, but they had been all for Bond. Q had a duty of care towards the older man, and it scared him half to death when he couldn’t find him like always. He tried to warn him, searched through every resource he could reach, and came up with nothing. Good agents were being killed, and the man on their side with the most intimate knowledge of Blofeld, the person responsible, had blown away like smoke. Espionage wasn’t the kind of job you could just walk out of. Technically, Bond still had a job, seeing as he didn’t formally resign. But Q secretly knew that M was only keeping his contract going because he knew he’d come back some day. 

The quartermaster found it hard to share his optimism.

The most difficult part of it all for him wasn’t the seizure.

It was the fact that he was in love with Bond, and all signs said that it was hopeless.

“M wants to speak with both of you prior to the meeting,” Arthur informed Cas and Q, tucking his pen away and checking his watch. “It’s due to begin in about fifteen minutes so I suppose you’d better get to his office in a hurry. I’ll go deal with our friend until then, and Q please make sure to report directly to me when it’s concluded for your medication.”

He drifted away in much lighter spirits than he’d entered with.

Holt linked her arm through Q’s and he switched the jacket over to his free one. “Come on then, quartermaster, you can regale me with tales of the illustrious James Bond on the way.”

“I’d really prefer not to,” Q replied candidly, allowing her to lead him. “Do you have any idea what M wants to discuss with us?”

Her playful demeanor disappeared, eyes hardening.

“My guess? He’s found a lead on Sceptre.”


	4. Pawns and Knights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wanted some visuals of the OC characters mentioned so far or in this chapter and beyond, here is the established fancast list:
> 
> Arthur 'R' Descartes - Eddie Redmayne  
> Cassandra 'Cas' Holt aka 007 - Alicia Vikander  
> Taron Ives - Tom Hughes  
> Christopher Acerbi/Ransom Novak - Tom Cavanaugh  
> Edgar Marks - Shaun Evans  
> Remus Saoi - Matthew Goode

James entered the conference room three steps behind Arthur and looking as if he just had the talking-to of a lifetime. The seats around the table were occupied by Moneypenny, M, Cassandra Holt, and an agent that Q knew as Taron Ives, the unit chief of the Sceptre investigation. Arthur took his seat on the other side of Q and Ives vacated his own seat to move towards the wall sized computer screen, flipping through the pages of his file, preparing to present.

Taron Ives couldn’t be much older than Q. He was the type of man to be described as beautiful rather than handsome, yet it was almost intimidating. Sharp cheekbones, dark wavy hair that crested over his forehead, and dark, brooding eyes that reminded Q of pictures taken from the depths of the ocean, the blue so filled with cold and intrigue that it was nearly black. Q used his intelligence to make weapons, whereas men like Ives used their intellect _as_ a weapon. No wonder M had chosen him to head this division. If his credentials weren’t enough, he at least _looked_ more than competent.

Bond took the empty seat next to Q with a slight amount of hesitance, as if afraid he would send the quartermaster running.

“I’m so sorry,” James touched his arm lightly, lowering his voice so that Arthur on the other side of Q couldn’t hear. “I had no idea what you went through to try and keep me safe. I owe you so much, and it’s not a debt I even know how to fix.”

It was awkward for Q to see James so humbled, a huge shift in his unapologetic demeanor. He knew undoubtedly that whatever Arthur said to him made a large impact and felt almost bad that his protective friend took Bond down a few notches from his usual self.

“I don’t blame you.” Q said quietly and with as much candor as he could.

Bond was silent for a moment. “You don’t need to forgive me.”

“You have nothing to be forgiven for.” Q bit his lower lip and stared at the edge of the table before looking up to James, taken aback by just how tired he actually looked. He hid it so well until you were a little over ten centimeters away from his face. “I’m not forgiving you, I’m saying I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault for wanting to be happy in life. If I had a chance, even a glimpse of what I imagine you felt, I’d do the same. I lost my opportunity and you took yours, and I wish I had your courage. I drove myself to a seizure, I worked too hard because I wanted to keep you safe. If your crime was wanting to take control of your life, my crime is caring about yours too much.”

Q suddenly felt as if he was going to spontaneously combust, realizing the extent of what he admitted, hoping Bond didn’t see right through him. He didn’t look at him again, not even when he said in a voice so full of sincerity and empathy, “I’m sorry you lost your chance.”

_So am I. That’s why I can’t look you in the eyes._

M cleared his throat, ending the chatter in the room. Cas, Eve, and Arthur were previously engrossed in conversation, no one paying any mind to the exchange between Q and James. Just as well.

“For those of you that don’t know, the young man standing behind me- oh, step forward Ives, don’t be shy- is Taron Ives. If you haven’t seen him down in the trenches with you lot it’s because for the most part his duties as an agent reside as a liaison officer between our sister agencies.” M explained, the agent’s right hand twitching slightly in what could have barely been described as a wave. “He does desk work, but he’s quite brilliant at it, and a few months ago I took him on as the head of the Sceptre investigation. Some of you are aware that we’ve been looking into this threat, and this is our first official briefing on the matter. A handful of your here are present because you’ve been recruited to the investigative and executive team of this mission, others because you’re the heads of your departments.”

That last part might have been a lie. Q wasn’t sure why Arthur was present, even as the head doctor of the medical wing. He had a sneaking suspicion that his friend just wanted to keep an eye on two of his patients.

“Enough of my ranting,” M turned his seat to face Ives. “Take it away, Agent Ives.”

Taron gave a small smile and it was like watching a fissure open in a marble statue and quickly seal back up as if time had rewound itself. “Hello,” his voice was both soft and cold as snow. “As you’ve just been told, my name is Taron Ives. I happen to know who all of you are so further introductions won’t be necessary.”

Bond made an amused noise that no one but Q heard.

Ives touched the screen of the large computer and it came to life, a bluish light filling the room. Fragments of maps, clippings of newspapers and articles, grids of photographs appeared, all sorted on the large spreadsheet. He touched a photograph and it blossomed, growing to fill most of the screen. A beautiful, almost harsh looking woman, chin high with dignity, hair pulled back tight against her head.

James stiffened and Q slowly recognized the woman before he even saw the name at the bottom.

“This is Doctor Madeleine Swann, also known as Madeleine White, now traveling under the name of Clara Müller.” Ives smoothed down the front of his suit with his hand. “She is one of few known Spectre agents still in operation after last year’s… incident.”

Q blinked in surprise. Incident? Is that what they were going to call it? The previous M leaving behind a clue for Bond to follow, subsequently leading to the dismantling of a multinational organization intent on stealing the world’s privacy. MI6’s best operative going off on his own accord to settle a personal vendetta and ending up all but saving the world. Q and M both nearly getting kidnapped and killed on separate occasions. Incident.

“Last year, using an ID card stolen from James Bond, she released one Ernst Stavro Blofeld,” his photograph was pulled up beside hers. “Formerly known as Franz Oberhauser, from MI6 custody. He has not been seen since. Now, recently Q-Branch has been intercepting messages all around the globe containing references to the name ‘Sceptre’ in association with Blofeld. At first it was assumed to be a misspelling until we realized that it is indeed a separate operation. While Spectre is healing, Sceptre has taken over. The names bear extreme significance to the purpose of each organization, we discovered.”

Taron produced a stylus from his pocket and opened a new blank window, writing across the screen in his neat scrawl ‘Spectre’ and ‘Sceptre’ side by side. “Spectre is headed by Ernst Stavro Blofeld.” He wrote the initials ‘ESB’ below ‘Spectre’. “It’s primary focus was becoming a shadow, a literal spectre watching over the world, controlling behind the scenes, keeping their operations secure. Sceptre, however, is more militant and aggressive in their bids for power and control. They are not subtle about what they want. Manipulation of stock markets, regimes, moles in government offices, so on and so forth. We’ve noted two assassinations in the past three months of European government officials, both replaced by people who we managed to connect to Sceptre. Spectre wanted to control the world outside of the grid. Sceptre is still maintaining their old practices, only they’re doing a much better job of it. The man we’ve identified as the head of Sceptre is named Christopher Acerbi.”

He wrote the initials under the corresponding name. “Now, Acerbi is an interesting individual. Apparently MI6 investigated a similar man to him in the nineties. The agents pursuing him were killed and nearly all evidence of his identity was lost after that accident. We do have reason to believe that there is a possibility that the two men are one and the same, seeing as Sceptre currently has in possession a program known as Aegis, created by one of the agents that was killed. A quartermaster, in fact.” Ives looked at Q with something that was akin to accusation, but of what, he wasn’t sure. “The father of our current one.”

And suddenly Q could hear nothing but a high pitched ringing in his ears.

Everyone turned to look at Q, except for M who very pointedly didn’t. The quartermaster felt like running from the room, locking himself in a closet and screaming, turning into a sobbing child once again, except his aunt and her wife weren’t there to comfort him. All he had was a room full of liars and spies. Friends and allies. Arthur, of course, being the exception.

Arthur. He was saying something. Q could barely make out a muted sound coming from his direction, the ringing slowly fading away, hearing coming back.

“-absurd!” Arthur was all but yelling at Taron. “You could’ve had a bit of decency, Ives. Just a shred of it! Did you not think for one moment to perhaps warn him ahead of time that we’re searching for his father’s killer?”

“It served no practical purpose,” Ives said simply.

Descartes turned as red as his hair. “Practical?!”

“Calm yourself, R.” M warned. “Or I’ll have you ejected from this room.”

The doctor went silent. Q was certain he heard him mutter the word ‘snake’. He grabbed his hand and Arthur squeezed back comfortingly.

“Ransom Novak.” The name felt bitter in Q’s mouth and he spit it out as quickly as he could. “That’s who Acerbi is.”

Ives drew a slash mark next to ‘CA’ and wrote ‘RN’. “Much obliged, Q. Acerbi has been spotted in Amsterdam and from what we could glean, he’s on his way to Paris to meet with Blofeld and exchange the Aegis program which Acerbi may be selling. The program itself puts Max Denbigh’s Nine Eyes commission to shame. The mission is to apprehend Acerbi, Blofeld, and Swann if possible, although she is a low priority to us. Neutralizing the program is of utmost importance. Once we have Acerbi and Blofeld in custody, we can proceed to dismantle both Spectre and Sceptre with the aid of other agencies.”

An air of finality surrounded Ives and he returned to the screen with the photographs of Blofeld and Swann, adding a third photo. A black haired man with blue eyes and glasses. His features were slightly aged, but there was a handsomeness to him, almost an arrogance. Bond would have said he looked like Q, but he was too malicious to have a familial connection. This was Christopher Acerbi.

A fourth photo was added. A jovial looking man with darker blonde hair and shining eyes. The name was Edgar Marks. Deceased.

A fifth. It took less than a second to realize that _this_ was Q’s father. Remus Saoi. He looked like a kinder, warmer version of Novak. Smoother features. Happier. Younger.

Deceased.

Q looked away from the screen and James didn’t know how to react. Comforting wasn’t his forte.

“I request to go after them on my own.” Bond stated.

“Denied.” M said immediately.

“I’m not one of your agents.”

“You most certainly are.”

“What’s to stop me?”

M smiled coldly, not answering directly. “The team consists of Agents Holt, Moneypenny, and Bond, along with Ives and Q, and will be split into two groups. One will be in the field in Paris locating the targets. The second will remain here to aid in allocating resources and communications. Moneypenny and Ives will stay here.”

Bond didn’t know he stood up until he was looking down at M, glaring with an intense anger. The minister stared back, unyielding.

“Q, Holt, and Bond will be in Paris going after Acerbi and Aegis.”

Something loud sounded behind Bond and Q made a noise of surprise. “Arthur, please-”

“No-” Arthur knocked his chair over because he stood so quickly, the doctor’s eyes wide with fury. “You bastard. You BASTARD!”

He crossed the space and threw himself at M, tackling him out of his chair and to the ground. Shouts came from both men as they attempted to wrestle the other into a state of disadvantage, curses and elbows flying.  James rushed into the fray and wrapped his arms around Descartes, pulling him back and shoving him roughly against the wall.

“HOW COULD YOU LET HIM?” Arthur roared, struggling against Bond’s arms, kicking his feet against the wall in an attempt to push him away. His glasses were askew on his face, hair mussed and wild. “You _KNEW! YOU KNEW IT WAS NOVAK!”_

“Calm down, Descartes!” James shook him by his lapel. M stood and stared at the pair, panting and disheveled, wiping a spot of blood from under his nose. Ives looked almost amused. Eve seemed as if she was about to take on M herself whilst Holt remained placid.

“Arthur, stop!” Q rose, and James spared a glance to see the absolute terror on his face. Terror over the fact that his usually composed friend had just snapped and attacked the head of MI6 in front of him.

Arthur seemed to notice this as well and effectively deflated, slumping and submitting to Bond’s hold.

“This isn’t helping anyone, Arthur,” James said in a low voice filled with warning. “What happened to the bookish, gawky doctor that used to poke fun at my injuries?”  
“He grew up.” Arthur hissed. “And for the sake of maintaining whatever good favor you’ve managed to recover with me, I suggest you unhand me right this instant.”

“Are you going to attack M again?”

“Are you offering your assistance?”

“Everyone out.” Bond ordered, looking around at their audience. “M, we’d like to speak with you.”

“Very well.” M nodded.

Ives took no time to exit, Holt close behind, lingering at the door to watch Eve maneuver a hesitant Q out with her.

Bond stepped away from the doctor once the door closed and Descartes straightened his coat indignantly.

Then he took three steps and raised his arm to backhand M across the face. “You-”

Before he could finish his words or action, James grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, causing him to cry out in either pain or shock. The doctor then laughed, looking at M with extreme loathing.

“You’re lucky I don’t fire you.” M told him, picking up his chair and sitting down.

R chuckled at that. “You’re lucky you’re not ending up in my hospital wing.”

“What are you on about?”

“You knew that Q could never say no to this,” Arthur accused, allowing Bond to throw him into a chair. This time, he didn’t make any threatening movements. “A chance to aid in capturing the man who blew up his father’s plane, subjecting Remus to a slow death as he watched his best friend die before him. Novak made Q an orphan. But you don’t care about any of that. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what exactly is that, Descartes?” M cocked his head, and James recognized immediately that he was playing coy. Oh God, R was getting somewhere.

Arthur fixed his eyes upon Bond but his answer was to M.

“You know that the only way to make Bond obey you is by putting someone he cares about in danger. You know that if you send Q on this mission to confront Ransom Novak, the man who threatened Q’s life when he was ten years old, the man who tore his world apart, who has been stalking him ever since the Sceptre investigation started-”

M bristled a bit at that and Arthur grinned, but his eyes were cold. His gaze was no longer on Bond, but the object of his rage.

“That’s right, M. I wanted to know just what it was that Q was working himself half to death about so I nicked dear Ives’ card during a ‘routine checkup’ and accessed the files. I didn’t expect to find a hidden folder, but I did. CCTV footage of Novak a block from Q’s flat. Across the street from his childhood home. Across the river from _this very building._ You’re using Q as a bargaining chip. Because as much as it’s his job to keep Bond safe, James here wouldn’t for a second abandon him a second time. You think you’re so damn smart, you’re so goddamn sure of yourself.Q is just a pawn to you and you're counting on his gallant knight to follow."

Arthur stood and looked to Bond again, and his face was unreadable. “You should have let me hit him, you know.”

He walked out of the room, throwing the door against the wall with a thunderous crack.

Bond couldn’t offend Q by forcing him to stay away from the mission. The man would hate him forever. Arthur wasn’t wrong. Their leader knew what he was doing, and he was correct.

M played his cards exactly right.

“I accept your bloody mission.” James slammed the door as hard as he could on his way out.


	5. Explanations

“R!” James ran to catch up to the doctor who had not lost any of his steam, storming off down the hall. Bond grabbed Arthur by the arm before he had any time to react and pulled him into the nearest room, a spare office.

“Get off of me!” Arthur tore his arm away, retreating to the other side of the room, grabbing the windowsill behind the desk as if it would keep him safe. Or like he could rip it off and beat anyone who tried to touch him. He stared at the agent, absolutely livid. “I appreciated your support back there, Bond, truly. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The biting sarcasm was unmissable.

“Support?” James locked the door, pulling a sheet off a chair and dragging the piece of furniture over to the desk, sitting down. “R, you _lost your mind_ back there. You attacked the head of MI6.”

A beat of silence and stillness.

Arthur’s knees buckled and he looked severely ill as he collapsed into the office chair, leaning his elbows on the surface between the two. He removed his glasses and ran a hand down his face.

“I didn’t mean to.” he said meekly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

If James had been worse of a person he would’ve held that fact over his head like a dangerously positioned anvil. Instead he only felt a suffocating kind of sorrow at the fact that there was something so dreadful in Q’s past that it would cause a man like Arthur to react so violently. Descartes knew that this mission would be placing Q in considerable danger, not just with others, but himself.

“Tell me about Ransom Novak,” Bond requested, curiosity and concern churning in his chest.

“Q should be the one to do that.” Arthur said in a significantly softer voice, lacking the acerbic edge he directed towards James all day.

Bond shook his head. “I don’t think we should make him relive this any more than he needs to. There’s no good way out of this and I need to know this if I want to keep him safe.”

Arthur looked as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a solid point. He wrung his hands together, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I never met Q’s father. He died a year before I even knew who Q was. His mother died when he was young so it was nearly always just him, his dad, and his aunt and her family.” Arthur began, sighing before continuing. “Novak was everything you’d expect from a criminal on the level of Blofeld. He was- is- far above him, he just masked his potential with smaller matters. Large scale robberies, arming the militant groups with the most money, things like that, I don’t know. From what Q told me, Remus only let on that he was an extremely dangerous man. He got on MI6’s radar and Remus and Edgar’s team were tasked with finding him.”

“Edgar Marks,” James recalled the name.

Arthur nodded. “Novak dealt mainly with cyber terrorism so of course Remus, the quartermaster, was onto him. One night when Remus was on his way back from work, he was shot. Not fatal. It wasn’t intended to kill him, more like a warning to back off. When it seemed like the message didn’t go through, Ransom decided to make a house call not long after and threatened to kill Q if Remus didn’t back off. Q persuaded Remus to keep fighting him and they moved to the country, way off the radar. Essentially in hiding. Then, when Q was seventeen, MI6 thought that they finally pinned Novak. Remus joined Marks, thinking that it would be safe to finally come out of hiding for the arrest. But the plane they were taking to go find him was rigged to explode. Three of the five team members were killed on impact. Edgar Marks passed away when the emergency helicopter arrived. Remus died on the way to the hospital. The previous M went to Siobhan Saoi, his sister, personally to tell her of the news. She didn’t expect for Q to be listening from the stairs.”

“Christ,” Bond sat back, taking in the information. He though of Q when he first met him, proving himself within seconds, his razor wit, dreamy eyes fixed on the art. He never would have guessed his past. The trauma and the loss. One look at Bond and Q could read everything, he was sure. But Q hid it so well.

“I knew what Ransom looked like because I found one of his files while helping Q clean out his old house.” Arthur laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “I thought he was Remus’ brother or something. But he was the furthest thing from it.” His demeanor rapidly fell into a state of melancholy. “So when I saw the face of the man who killed Q’s father, his godfather, and three other agents sitting in M and Ives’ files, obviously following Q…”

“You thought he was trying to fulfill his threat.” Bond realized, the severity of the words expanding and filling the room like a dense fog.

Arthur pressed his lips tight, eyes flicking down to the desk. The thirty year old man looked as if he’d aged ten years in two seconds. “I only discovered it this morning. I called Ives to the hospital wing while you and Q were unconscious to get him away from his station. This is why I wasn’t there when you two woke. And then both of you were gone-”

He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

“I know I’m just the MI6 head doctor to you,” Arthur put his glasses back on, meeting his eyes through them. “But there’s one thing I hope you’ll understand about me. My parents didn’t give me a sibling but I found a brother when I met Q, and how he and I-” R couldn’t seem to find the words he was looking for. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe. I ran down to find you two, I talked my way into the meeting so that I could be there if something happened.

“I performed your surgery myself so that I could ensure your survival and make sure that Q wouldn’t have to lose a friend. Bond, every harsh word I’ve uttered to you since the moment you came back has been because I was mad about what _he_ went through for you. Now M is crossing a line. He’s dangling my brother out there like bait on a hook for you and Novak. Whatever you need to do to keep him safe, you do it. I don’t care about your year of galavanting or any of that. What matters is that you’re here with us now, and this is your chance to balance the scales.”

“You have my word I will keep him safe,” Bond promised, pouring every spare drop of sincerity he could wring into his words.

Arthur nodded, satisfied. “Good. But don’t get any ideas of martyrdom in your head. Promise me.”

Bond was taken aback by how much he sounded like he cared.

“I promise.”

-

Q found himself returning to the conference room as if by some magnetic force, unable to keep away. Perching on the edge of the table like a bird on a perch, he gingerly lifted Ives’ forgotten remote and activated the screen, the artificial light washing over his pale form.

He just wanted to see his face again.

He enlarged the photograph of Remus Saoi to fill half the screen, everything else blurred in the background. No Ransom Novak, no Madeleine Swann, no Blofeld.

Just Remus.

Father.

Someone must have enhanced the image because Q remembered seeing the exact photo on his father’s ID badge and it was nowhere near as clear. There he was now, eyes crisp and clear, crinkled at the edges with his signature knowing smile. A stray curl escaping from his mostly neatly combed hair.

He pulled up Edgar’s beside his father’s image, fitting them both to be half of the screen. The picture seemed complete now, both familiar figures smiling back at him like they once had so long ago.

Q lost them both in one day.

For a moment he almost thought of searching through the employee database to find a photo of his mother, but thought better of it. Enough wounds reopened for one sitting.

The door opened and Bond marched in, and then froze in his tracks as he and Q saw each other across the room.

“Sorry,” Bond didn’t take his hand off the door, halfway between leaving and staying. “I didn’t realize- I was trying to find M.”

“You can stay if you want.” Q said before he could stop himself.

James smiled genuinely and let the door close, sitting beside him on the table, tapping his shoes against the floor. He followed Q’s gaze to the images, although not seeing as far as the quartermaster did. He saw two agents that had been murdered. Not a beloved father or treasured godfather. Two ghosts.

“He would’ve liked you, my dad,” Q didn’t know why the words came, but they did, and they caught Bond’s attention. “He was the intelligent type, but the brave ones… they always enthralled him. I suppose that’s why he and Ed got on so well.”

“Marks probably gave back his equipment in one piece.” Bond grinned.

Q snorted. “Honestly. He’d sit at his desk behind his computer controlling everything, but he said never once felt like a puppeteer. He was the audience to the agents’ acts. He really loved this job.”

He could tell that his voice had taken on an overly wistful tone but it was inescapable

“He’d be proud of you.” James nudged his shoulder gently. “You’re bloody brilliant at your job.”

A sliver of a smile slid across his face. “That was never my concern. I always knew that I’d be able to make him proud in one way or another because that’s just how he raised me. As long as I was happy in life that was success enough.”

“And are you happy?” Bond sounded genuinely curious.

“I think I am.” Q nodded after a slight hesitation. “I’m good at what I do. I’ve always known how to do it. And the people around me have become family if they weren’t already.”

“Like Arthur.”

He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him, remembering the scene that had occurred only minutes ago. “Oh, Arthur. He’s always been like a protector in a way. It’s a mutually occupied position though.”

Somehow he sensed that James wanted him to keep talking, to maintain the conversation and let Q talk, so he did.

“We shared the same dorm in university,” Q went on. The sudden influx of memories made him smile and it stayed on his face this time. “The first time I saw him he was sitting there on his bed with a tweed cap on, tuning a bass cello, feet resting on a stack of medical books, and a cat climbing in his boxes. We exchanged letters prior to moving in since it was a unique condition for him because he wasn’t legally male at the time and the dorms were gendered. But once I met him I think I knew at that moment that he was someone I’d love for the rest of my life in one way or another. It was a rough place in our lives because we’d both lost someone close to us but without even deciding to, we helped each other. It’s been like that ever since. Brothers not in blood but in bond, that sort of thing.”

James envied their relationship, silently wishing that he had that rare shared experience with someone in his early life, someone to be with him through thick and thin. Instead he was left empty handed. Until MI6. Until his second mother died.

But he needed something else to say and that was “They let you have a cat?”

Q chuckled. “For emotional support. His name was Babbage.”

“Cabbage?”

“Babbage.” Q repeated, enunciating the ‘b’. “As in Charles Babbage, the mathematician.”

“Right.” James nodded, although he certainly had no idea who the man was. Silence fell again.

There was something he was supposed to say to Q, or not say-

“Thank you for not trying to talk me out of this mission.” Q beat him to it, sparing him a grateful smile. Sadness laced it like a spiked drink. Invisible but potent.

Bond sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t thank me yet, it’s taking all of my willpower to not do anything. Arthur told me about Novak.”

Q nodded, feeling a weight lifted from his shoulders. “Good of him to do that. I guess you know that I’m a walking target now.” He looked back to the screen, swallowing with difficulty. “Ransom Novak has been in my head for twenty years. He took my father, he took my godfather, he stole Aegis, he’s taken my sleep, and it appears that now he’s taken my safety. He knows where I live but hasn’t made a move. If he wanted to kill me so badly then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Christ, Q,” James turned to him, searching him up and down as if looking for the logic he couldn’t find. “You can’t seriously be counting on Novak’s hesitance to keep you alive!”

The quartermaster looked grim, but felt sick to his stomach. “I have to. If that man is hesitating about something, if he even has a shred of doubt as to my insignificance to him, there’s a reason. And I need to know what it is.” 


	6. Bleeding Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first bit of this chapter takes place in the past and yes, it’s from Remus Saoi’s (Q’s father’s) POV. I intended it to provide some backstory on the original characters as well as act as a mirror for the second half. This chapter is kind of information heavy and sort of prepares everything to launch into the next phase of the story so apologies if it isn’t entirely thrilling, I’ll have a new one up soon, promise.

_November, 2004. Former MI6 River House._

_Ransom Novak had been in custody in Moscow for the past two months with no incident, meaning Remus Saoi was permitted to return back to work and emerge from his protective living situation. Novak’s transfer to MI6 custody was pending after he faced his charges in Russia._

_His ‘office’ was an allotted amount of space in the large workshop room parallel to the floor where the Q-Branch technicians worked with the computers. The room was so white and bright that Remus couldn’t bear to be in it for very long without battling the urge to put on a pair of sunglasses. His vision had been sensitive ever since a trainee accidentally set off a flash grenade. Or perhaps that was just middle age. Or his migraines._

_It felt nice to be back at his desk again, though, in his familiar workspace. He set his box of belongings down and smiled fondly, touching a groove in the wood with his nail. His son had chiseled it out with a screwdriver when he was four, thirteen years ago. It seemed like a lifetime._

_“Remus, you handsome devil, get over here!” a jovial voice called from the doorway._

_Remus grinned, looking up to see a tall, borderline lanky man with strawberry blonde hair and a well fitting suit smiling back. Seven years since he’d seen him in person._

_“Edgar!” Remus wasted no time in striding over, meeting his friend in a firm embrace. God, he hadn’t even changed his aftershave in all that time. He needed to have a word with him about that later. “Get into any trouble lately?”_

_“Might’ve nicked a handful of mints from Akari’s private reserve in her desk but other than that I am the picture of obedience.” Edgar chuckled, clapping Remus on the shoulder and looking him over, taking him in once again. “You look good! Has it really been that long?”_

_“Phone calls every week take the sting out of my absence don’t they?” Remus joked, making his way back to his desk and unpacking his things. A picture of Maeve with Russ as a baby, his sister Siobhan with her wife and children, his favorite pens, so on and so forth._

_Edgar dragged a chair from an unused station, weaving past other workers going back and forth between supply shelves and set it in front of the desk, depositing himself within it and kicking his feet up onto the desk. “Did Russ get my birthday present?”_

_“Oh, he did and he loves it.” Remus assured him. “I’d gotten him a new laptop anyway so the case was a perfect addition.”_

_“And the exploding stylus pen I tucked in the pocket?”_

_Remus looked up quickly, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”_

_Edgar laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, I’m not. God, Saoi, being a full time parent puts you much too far on edge.”_

_Before Remus could respond, someone knocked on the doorframe, announcing their entrance._

_It was a woman not much shorter than himself, clad in an admittedly nice pantsuit that was a stark contrast to her pale skin and light blonde hair. Her crystalline eyes shone at him when she smiled, like mirrors pointed directly at the sky. Vaguely Athenian in their grayish wiseness._

_Needless to say, she was beautiful._

_“It’s good to meet you, Remus Saoi.” the woman’s smile grew. “I’m Alene Holland.”_

_“Alene Holland, in the flesh.” Remus hurried over to shake her hand but she held her smile and shook her head, pulling him forward into an embrace. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her waist as she squeezed him tighter._

_Alene Holland was taken onto the Novak case after Remus was forced to withdraw from actively participating when an attempt was made on his and his family’s lives. Over the past seven years they frequently coordinated and shared information, working together over the phone. As time passed they became good friends despite never even seeing the other’s face. It was oddly liberating to speak to someone other than his son or Edgar about things that weren’t work related, as if he had a normal life in which he could casually debate with someone over the superiority of transitional seasons and other frivolous and benign topics. As far as work went the two were attached at the hip, save for the incredible distance between them, sharing their minds and working as a single unit. An unconventional symbiosis._

_“Remus!” she said, releasing him and grinning broadly. “We meet for the first time and you have the audacity to try and shake my hand? I thought we were closer than that.”_

_“We are,” he assured her, smiling warmly. “I just didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with it.”_

_Alene swatted him lightly. “Seven years? Of course it’s going to be a hug. We’re practically married at this point.”_

_Remus laughed. “How are you doing?”_

_“Fantastic now that you’re here!” Alene couldn’t stop smiling. “M’s given me the position of linguist on the team since you’re taking your job back. I can help the custodial transfer go a bit more smoothly so we don’t have to debrief a translator. You’re moving back into your old flat right? How’s your son doing with all this? Icarus, right?”_

_“Russ!” Edgar cut in, throwing himself onto the futon against the wall. “It’s Russ for short.” He saw them staring and put his hands in the air. “I got tired of third wheeling, someone had to notice me.”_

_“Oh piss off, Ed, I see you every day.” Alene pushed his shoulder playfully. She shrugged her backpack off and dropped it on the ground by her desk before flipping her laptop open._

_Remus settled back down to work and Edgar lay on his back on the sofa, making himself at home._

_“Ed, don’t you have anything better to do?” Remus clicked his pen before opening a file._

_“Absolutely not.” Edgar crossed his legs and folded his arms behind his head. “Just ignore me, I’m not even here.”_

_Remus met Alene’s eyes and they both let out a silent laugh before going back to their work._

_A few hours of silence passed and the three became the only ones remaining in the workshop as everyone else went out to lunch. Alene picked at a container of berries she had packed and Remus let Edgar steal half of his sandwich. Every now and then he would glance over at Alene as if verifying her existence or just to look at her. Edgar picked up far too quickly._

_“You fancy her.” He grinned, claiming the spare chair once again and rolling up to Remus._

_“Shut up, Ed.” Remus ducked his head._

_“Oh ho, you do! I knew it, I knew it!” Edgar whispered excitedly, punching at the air. “Remus Saoi, you absolute bloody cad, ask her out!”_

_“You can’t call me a cad and then tell me to ask someone out in the same sentence.” Remus told him, typing vigorously as if he could delete the conversation as easily as a line of code._

_“It’s a joke, Reme, everybody in the whole wide world knows you’re the furthest thing from one, you’ve hardly spoken to another woman in the past decade. Prude is more like it.”_

_“Oi!” Remus smacked his friend’s arm, but he was laughing._

_“Why don’t you walk over and talk to her?”_

_Remus shook his head hastily. “My knee hurts. Must’ve jarred it or something while I was putting up a shelf. I’m old, Marks.”_

_“You’re forty one!”_

_“That’s plenty old.”_

_“God, I might as well keel over and die any moment, I’m forty five, my days are numbered!” Marks said dramatically in mock offense. “Plus Alene is forty so you’re calling her old as well and let me tell you that is not a nice thing to say-”_

_“Edgar, I won’t.” Remus shook his head. “She probably doesn’t like me in that sense anyhow.”_

_Edgar looked miffed. “What’s not to like about you? If I wasn’t married I’d ask you out myself. Still have half a mind to actually, so long as you don’t tell Tori.”_

_Remus laughed loud enough that Alene looked up for a second, confused and then smiling._

_“What’s going on with you boys?”_

_“Edgar says he’s going to leave his wife for me.” Remus joked, grinning at the man who wrapped an arm around his shoulder._

_“We’re madly in love.” Edgar declared. “It’s such a tragic romance.”_

_“It’s tragic for anyone that’s stuck with you, that’s for sure.” Alene said with a laugh. Edgar faked being shot, clutching his heart._

_“Ask her now!” He hissed._

_“No.”_

_“Come now, it’s easy!”_

_“Oh, yes?”_

_“Here, I’ll show you.” Edgar raised his eyebrow and smiled, accepting the challenge he himself set._

_Remus’s eyes widened as he realized what his friend was about to do. He reached out to grab the hem of his coat as if it would somehow prevent him from speaking. “Ed, no, please!”_

_But of course he said it. “Alene, Remus has something to tell you!”_

_Holland closed her book, quizzical, and Edgar hauled Remus to his feet, the quartermaster smacking him and trying to pull away but failing nonetheless. Alene hid her laugh behind her hand and a small smile pulled at Remus’s mouth, but he quickly extinguished it._

_“Marks is just having you on again.” Remus said quickly, turning back around and anchoring himself to his seat, massaging his knee and turning back to the letters._

_“Miss Holland, Remus would like to ask you out to tea tomorrow during your break.” Edgar gave a grand, sweeping bow, gesturing to Remus who hid his face behind his hands, wishing it all to be over._

_“Like a date?” Remus heard Alene ask._

_“Like a date.” His best friend replied, much to his horror._

_“You won’t mind me stealing him away from you?”_

_“Our romance is in shambles, I couldn’t possibly leave my beloved Victoria and he’s got eyes for someone else entirely, which just so happens to be you.”_

_“Well tell him that I accept, would you?” Alene said loud enough that it was apparent she was directing it at Remus._

_He slowly took his hands from his face to see her smiling brightly at him, and he found himself doing the same, finding happiness and hope in the same moment._

-

M and Arthur saw them off at the airport, the two somehow managing to share a car without maiming the other.

Q had taken some sleeping medication before arriving at the private plane, hoping to be knocked out by the time the wheels stopped touching the runway. He was immensely glad to see Arthur, welcoming the embrace from his friend. His coat smelled faintly of antiseptic and mint.

“Take care, please,” Arthur whispered into his ear. Q held him tighter. “Even if M does care if you die he won’t blink at putting you in danger if it’ll draw Novak and Blofeld out.”

“And you?”

“I’d care a hell of a lot if you died.” The look on his face showed that it was an enormous understatement. “So don’t do that. Doctor’s orders.”

“I promise I won’t.” Q smiled, pulling away. He noticed Arthur’s glasses had slid a bit down his nose and he pushed then back up with his index finger. His friend chuckled and poked him in the forehead.

“Stay safe, Russ.”

“As long as you stop trying to fight M.”

Arthur nodded. “It’s too late for anything now. I lost that fight.”

“And we’ll win this one.” He promised, touching his shoulder lightly. “I’ll see you soon.”

Arthur managed a small smile before returning to the car, his farewell done.

M cleared his throat, calling the attention of James, Cas, and Q. The man looked haggard and Q almost felt sorry for him.

“Try to get this done as quickly as possible. Every day Sceptre is running is a day closer to a victory we don’t want. Neutralize Swann if you must, but we need Blofeld and Novak alive.” M said with strong assertiveness in his voice. “Recover Aegis before it gets to Blofeld. He’s the only one with the resources to even use it besides us, and we can’t let that happen.”

“Interpol will be assisting in the arrests, right?” Cas asked for clarification, adjusting her backpack strap. Q had never seen someone pack so light.

“Actually, I called in a favor with the DGSE through the council.” M seemed mildly pleased with himself. “They’ll be on call once you’ve apprehended the targets.”

“Brilliant.” Holt nodded, turning to ascend the steps to the plane. James and Q made to follow with their bags before M had another thought.

“007.”

“Yes?” Both Holt and Bond stopped in their tracks and turned to face M before staring at each other.

M gave an exasperated sigh. “You’re going to have to sort that out. Soon. Bond, I just wanted to tell you that I understand your connection with Miss Swann but if that endangers the operation in any way there will be hell.”

Q watched James’ face, searching for any expression or twitch that would betray his internal feelings. Love, regret, anger, anything.

But he remained placid and apathetic.

“Understood, sir.”

-

James lost feeling in his hand as soon as the plane reached its optimal altitude.

Q had looked nervous beyond belief, borderline terrified as the plane gave its first lurches, taking off from the tarmac. Cas had made herself comfortable in her seat, reclining with a drink in hand and listening to music through her earbuds. The quartermaster seemed to be on the verge of jumping out of his skin so James extended his hand to him over the table between them and Q took it gratefully, but Bond underestimated how strong someone’s grip could be when they were scared.

“The medication should be taking effect soon,” Q said anxiously, as if the fact he hadn’t fallen asleep yet heralded an apocalyptic situation. Perhaps it did for him.

“Let’s talk about something.” James suggested, prying his hand free. Q looked apologetic, pulling his hand to his chest as if he’d accidentally burned James. “Anything to get your mind off the plane.”

“Like what, exactly?”

James had no idea, so he looked around, trying to think of a topic. “Cassandra Holt? What do you think of her?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” Q chuckled faintly, a small victory. “She’s kind. Incredibly brave and strong. She told me she beat Moneypenny during sparring and I didn’t believe it until I saw Eve with an ice pack a bit after. We’ve gone for tea a few times after work. I have a lot of respect for her.”

“Do you fancy her?” James ventured.

Q’s eyes went as wide as planets and he shook his head so firmly that Bond was afraid his glasses would fly off. “No! No, absolutely not.”

“She can’t hear you, you know.”

“Even if she could my answer would be the same.” Q picked at his nails, averting his eyes from both agents. “I _do not_ fancy her.”

“Eve, then?”

Q’s eyes shot back to him, brows furrowed, face full of questioning. A bit of hostility worked its way into his voice. “What’s the meaning of this, Bond?”

He hadn’t meant to attack Q on the subject but clearly that was how he had taken it.

“I only meant-” James paused, rephrasing. “You told me earlier that you missed your chance. I only wanted to know who it was.”

“Well I’m glad you thought it was a proper subject to bring up in the state I’m in.” Q tried to open a bottle of water but his hands were shaking too much so he set it back down. It was clear he was trying not to snap at James but it wasn’t working out too well. “And for the record, I don’t feel comfortable telling you, so leave it be and wake me when we land.”

He rose unsteadily from his seat and crossed over to the couch, his height forcing his to bring his knees to his chest, curling up and facing away from the world and towards the prospect of drugged sleep.

James was left staring at him and hating himself for his curiosity. What was a question to him was akin to pulling teeth. Insensitive. Selfish. He couldn’t stop messing up, could he? Like playing poker and letting your cards bleed. Only he wasn’t the one that was hurt, it wouldn’t be him that bled.

He’d broken down the walls but he could so clearly see them being built back up, leaving him stranded on the other side once again. 


	7. City of Light

Rousing Q was easier than Bond thought it would be, given the fact that he took the liberty of medicating himself. The flight was only a little over an hour anyway, so his sleep hadn't been too deep. Holt was the one that woke him. After their recent altercation he thought that Q might want the first face he saw to be someone else. But he sought James out regardless.

“Are we here?” He looked quite owlish without his glasses on, younger, calmer. The calm bit was likely because they were back on the ground.

James couldn’t help but smile. “We’re here. It’s nighttime too so it looks like you’ll be back to sleep in no time.”

Q chuckled and ran a hand through his hair as Cas shoved her belongings back into her backpack. He yawned. “I’m afraid I can’t. I have to start searching for Swann. She’ll be easiest and might even be able to lead us to Blofeld and Novak.”

“She won’t cooperate.” James informed him, grabbing his bags and follows Q out of the plane once he’d gotten his down from the rack.

“We’ll have to find a way to convince her to.” Q said simply, an acerbic edge to his voice.

“Sounds like fun.” Cas said breezily, slinging her backpack into the boot of the car that sat waiting for them. “I’m a very convincing person.”

That was when James noticed the butterfly knives sheathed on her belt and decided to take her word for it.

It was dark outside on their private strip aside from the general airport. The only lights were the red from the car’s tail lights bleeding onto the damp tarmac and the golden glow emitting from the inside of the plane. The moon had veiled itself behind the clouds, a cool autumn breeze sweeping through their loose ranks and stirring up the smell of recent rain. His shoulder began to ache so he fished a bottle of painkillers from his pocket and swallowed a few dry. He’d recovered quickly before with far less and was lucky that it was such a small bullet and only soft tissue damage. It might disadvantage him in a fight but he could deal with the current discomfort.

Q pulled his jacket tighter around himself after Cas volunteered to take his suitcase. He refused to let go of his computer bag, however, holding it to his chest as if it was an extension of his body.

James tossed his two duffels into the boot and opened the back door for Q, gesturing politely with his hand, flashing a gentlemanly smile. “After you.”

Q looked to Cas before moving. “Are you sitting up front?”

She closed the boot and snorted. “Of course I am. I’m your new driver in case this one turns out to be a snake.” With that cheerful remark, she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Thank you, Bond.” he smiled politely, there and gone. James slid in after him and they were off to the hotel.

The ride was spent in silence. Cas kept her eyes on the road, same as the driver, preoccupied with what was ahead of them. Q chose to rest his head against the window and watch the lights of the city flash by them like colorful streaks. There was a wistfulness that Bond was unsure of how to describe, so he simply left it at that.

There were many things he was unsure of. Phone calls to who Madeleine said was her aunt every so often, odd hours at the new clinic she’d found work at. They could have traveled the world, moved to the most exotic of islands, but it was England for them. They made a home together.   
He was happy. He thought she was as well.

And then the morning came when James misplaced one of his cufflinks. Of all things to happen. Thinking Madeleine had mistaken it for a piece of her jewelry he went over to her vanity and searched around. What he found instead was a bottle of concentrated potassium cyanide, a loaded gun, and a burner cell phone. The only contact was someone named ‘Sceptre’.

Surprise lasted for the briefest increment of time replaced by what felt like an expertly blended cocktail of disappointment and rage. Disappointed that their love was a sham? No. Disappointed that he’d let himself be beguiled by someone like her again. This was history repeating itself, this was Vesper Lynd crawling out of the canal she drowned in and peeling off her face to reveal the second one she’d been hiding. The face of a liar.

No, Madeleine Swann was not Vesper. She was not an innocent corrupted by desperation, forced into playing a rigged game. This was a little girl who learned to kill a man before she could read chapter books. This was a woman whose father worked for a global shadow organization. It seemed that the apple had not fallen far from the tree, despite all attempts to show the opposite. And then she tried to kill him.

He didn’t want to hurt someone he once loved, but that love was a lie and his sense of mercy was not mutual in the slightest. Madeleine Swann was a mark now. A target. An obstacle. This was no longer a revenge mission for him, despite how he intended it to be. James didn’t even know if Q sought revenge for his father’s murder. It seemed too tainted a thing for someone who seemed so pure and untarnished. Revenge took a special caliber of hate that James wished Q wouldn’t have to harbor. There was only a slim chance he didn’t. Bond couldn’t blame him if he did. No one could.

-

The hotel was nice, to say the least. Q didn’t spend much time taking it in, far too tired to want to deal with any excess stimulation. The three of them got to their rooms, discovering at the desk that only two adjoining rooms that been booked for them, one single, one double. Keeping Cas and Bond in the same room didn’t seem favorable, nor did leaving Bond on his own since neither trusted the other agent to not run off despite the leverage M put in place. That left Q and James sharing the double room and Cas happily having a room to herself.

In twenty four hours Q’s life had gone from being devoid of James Bond for over a year to sleeping in the same hotel room as him at some place in Paris he didn’t even know the name of. It was definitely odd, to say the least. The way the key card in the lock sounded like a detonator made Q bristle a bit, jarring him from his thoughts as he followed Bond into the room.

Glass doors opened up to a decent sized terrace overlooking the bustling city as well as a convenient fire escape should they need to make a rapid egress, something which Q desperately hoped wouldn’t occur. The walls were vanilla and the bedsheets of both beds were varying shades of blue. A sturdy writing desk, mini fridge, mirror, door to Cas’s room, and a flatscreen all occupied the wall opposite the beds and nightstands.

Q wanted nothing more than to just collapse on his bed and sleep for ages, but he forced himself to get his laptop out, work on untangling the charging cord, and set up his personal WiFi router. He’d have to check on his security settings again before getting to work on anything. The search for Madeleine Swann could wait until morning, couldn’t it? He could see though the doorway that Cas had already turned her light off, no doubt in the process of falling asleep. Q could hardly keep his eyes open himself, feeling like weights had been tied on to each of them.

Bond closed himself in the bathroom with one of his bags so Q took advantage of the privacy to quickly change into some sleepwear and text Arthur to let him know they’d arrived safely. He sat comfortably against the excessive amount of pillows and put his laptop on his legs, peering at the screen through blurry eyes. M had sent him the file on Madeleine Swann with the more recent developments. A security camera at the Parisian Eurostar station had caught her. Her hair was dyed a rusty shade of red, like she’d picked the first color off the shelf in a drug store and was lucky it hadn’t been blue.

Q met her only twice. Once, at his hotel room in Austria. Second, in London when everyone was regrouping to enact the final stages of their plan to dismantle Spectre. There was something unsettling about her. The curtness, the look in her eyes that said she always knew more than she’d tell, beautiful and deadly like poison hemlock. Of course James would fall for someone like that. And of course it would end this way.

The bathroom door clicked open and Q quickly closed the tab, snapping his laptop shut and stowing it away as James rounded the corner.

“You look like you need to sleep.” Bond pointed at him with his toothbrush before sticking it in his travel bag. He’d changed into black sweats and an MI6 training shirt and apparently took the liberty to rid his face of the stubble that had accumulated.

How dare he look so normal. Endearing, even.

“You shaved.” was all Q thought to say.

Bond chuckled. “Well spotted. I should’ve asked you to give me a hand, I forgot what it’s like to shave with stitches in a shoulder.” He popped open a bottle of antibiotics and shook a few out, chasing them down with a glass of water he’d filled from the sink.

“Shit,” Q quickly climbed off the bed and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge before throwing it and his suitcase on top of the covers, searching through his things.

“I didn’t do something wrong, did I?” Bond seemed genuinely concerned.

Q shook his head and managed a placating smile. “No, sorry, you just reminded me I have to take my own- ah- meds, damn, they should be in here- there we go.”

The bottle of Trazodone had been wedged beneath a few pairs of socks along with the vitamins Arthur forced him to bring along. Eve had gotten a refill for him- not that he got any say in the matter. He’d taken one before the flight to help him sleep since it acted as a sedative but he still had to take the scheduled one at night. Q would have to learn to get back into the routine of taking medication again.

“What are those?” James asked, pulling his comforter up to his chest and folding his arms behind his head, wincing a bit. If he was only wincing a day after being shot then he was bloody indestructible.

Q pressed his lips together, not wanting to answer. But something inside him told him to open up. Fixing their dynamic required participation on both ends.

“My antidepressants.”

“Your-” Bond stopped, realizing he was repeating Q. “How long?”

Q threw the small white pill in his mouth and quickly swallowed it, screwing the caps back on the water and prescription bottle, clearing the bed before climbing back in. “Since I was seventeen.”

“That was when-”

_He saw a white haired woman standing on the doorstep, a black umbrella shielding her from the rain. She looked like a funeral mourner or a businesswoman, the way she was dressed in dark colors. Her hair was feathery. Her eyes were wrinkled but sharp._

_“My name is Olivia Mansfield, but you can call me M. May I come in?”_

_“I shouldn’t, my father isn’t home, can I ask why-”_

_“Your name is Icarus Saoi, correct? And your father is Remus?”_

_His aunt called from down the hall asking who was there._

_“Who are you again?”_

_“Icarus, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this-”_

“Yes.” Q said, feeling his throat close up. He shifted into a more comfortable position and removed his glasses so that even facing Bond he wouldn’t have to see his reactions. “It… it makes it hard for me to function the way I should. The long hours- I’d rather be distracted by working than have to take pills. Taking care of myself becomes an afterthought. That’s why it helped-” tears began to prickle at his eyes and he fought them back. “It helped that you were there. It’s not fair of me to say that, I know. But I really appreciated you being there for me and I think you ought to know that.”

A beat of silence. Q’s brain screamed at him to shut up, he’d said too much, said the wrong thing-

“Thank you for telling me.” James said softly. Not the generic ‘I’m sorry’ that Q despised, no pity or sorrow. It sounded like he cared.

Q turned away, feeling exponentially lighter with relief. “Goodnight, Bond.”

“Goodnight, Q. Sleep well.”

-

Someone was nearly sitting on his feet when he woke up.

Q snapped awake and reached for his glasses, jamming them on his face to see Cas at the end of his bed halfway through some kind of croissant breakfast sandwich, a paper cup of coffee held between her knees.

“Ah, christ-” Cas grabbed her coffee and hopped off the bed, checking to make sure nothing had spilled.

“Step one of being a double-o,” Bond said from his side of the room, strapping his gun harness on his left side, careful not to agitate his bandage. “Don’t spill your coffee.”

“I thought it was ‘be a pretentious arse’.” Cas relocated to an armchair, perching on the arm like a bird. “You’re doing a pretty good job at that.”

Bond chuckled and she grinned.

“I see you two have become new best friends,” Q rubbed his eyes and sat up, searching for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.” James threw a colorful paper bag at him. “Holt woke up at the crack of dawn and wanted to go get some pastries for breakfast so we sat outside waiting for the bakery around the corner to open. Got to talking a bit and now here we are. Coffee’s in the pot if you’d like some.”

“What, no earl grey?” Q bit off the end of a croissant and found chocolate inside. Not unpleasant.

“Holt, you owe me five quid.” James pointed at her with a cartridge.

“I do _not_!” Holt looked for something to throw at him but came up empty. “The bet was on the first thing he asked for. He asked for the time before the tea. You’re not swindling me, Jimbo.”

Q almost choked. “ _Jimbo_?”

James looked mortified. “I’m as confused as you are, Q.”

Cas shrugged. “I regret nothing. Q, any news on Swann?”

He brushed the crumbs of his hands and into the bag, reaching for his laptop, not wanting to get out of bed just yet. “She was spotted at the Eurostar station so we have confirmation that she’s in Paris too. Her hair is red now, like copper. I can have security camera footage, credit card transactions, and hotel check in logs by the time I’m out of the shower.”

“Brilliant.” Bond finished arming himself and smiled, but there was a steely look in his eyes that looked like grim resignation. “Let’s get her.”

-

Q showered and made a valiant attempt at combatting the mess of his hair. It was shorter than he usually kept it but a battle nonetheless. He took the pills Arthur packed for him and changed into dark jeans, black running shoes, and a sweater. As strange as it felt to dress so casually while technically still working he’d packed several similar outfits since it would be more practical to be out and moving in something less restricting than, say, a three piece suit. Especially if he had to run from Novak. As much as he’d rather stay at the hotel and monitor their activities from his laptop, M had given the two agents specific orders to keep Q in their sight. And he was much more defenseless alone in a hotel than in the field with them. He was beginning to think this was a mistake.

Bond and Holt were both clad in black, significantly armed beneath their coats. Holt’s hair was tied back with what Q knew to be some kind of wire meant to be used as a garrote. The computer found Madeleine Swann at a hotel a few blocks away having checked in under the alias a few hours before midnight. That left the hours she spent after disembarking the train unaccounted for thus far.

James handed Q his jacket and patted the large inside pocket. “There’s a gun in case you need it. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Q voiced his assent.

A car was waiting outside for them and Bond took the wheel, arguing that he could manage it, but whenever they turned Q could see a slight tightening of his eyes from the stitches pulling.

Madeleine’s hotel looked like the place where royalty went to lounge or adulterous couples spent far too much money than their spouses would approve of. She was used to a certain lifestyle thanks to her blood money, and even on the run her tastes wouldn’t change if it wasn’t necessary. Perhaps she felt safe.

That was her mistake. 


	8. Red Swann, Red Herring

The moment they stepped in the lobby Q could almost feel the presence of Ransom Novak. He wasn’t the bellhop or the manager or the people at the desk, nor the woman reading a magazine or the man laughing with his wife as their child pulled at the petals of a decorative orchid. He was in the walls, in the air, the shadow the three cast as they walked towards the silver doored lift. The quartermaster was kept between the agents, Holt maintaining a firm grip on his arm lest he get pulled away.

_He could be in this building._ Q couldn’t help thinking, tapping the side of his leg nervously. A chill crawled down his back, snaking around his spine. _The man who wants me dead. The man who killed-_

He bit the inside of his lip so hard it split.

No one gave them a second glance as the doors parted and they stood aside to let a couple exit before boarding but he still felt eyes on them. As if over the years he’d developed the extra sense that made the double-o’s so good at their work. They knew when something wasn’t right.

Mirrors. The walls of the large lift were all reflective, forcing him to see his gangly form and bespectacled face as the doors sealed shut, sending them up to the top floor where Swann’s suite was. He looked so out of place next to Bond and Cas who wore their strength and confidence with ease. They were physically intimidating in more ways than one, whereas Q looked like he’d gotten lost on his way to the library. They’d given him a gun and Eve taught him basic combat months ago, but he could never hold his own. His computer was his weapon and without it he felt embarrassingly weak.

The gun in his pocket felt like a lead weight, so out of place, almost mocking his incompetence. Not just his lack of strength but the fact that he didn’t know if he could actually shoot someone. Every now and then a trigger had to be pulled but it was much different being the one holding it. Easier said than done. He almost felt ashamed that the thought of killing Novak came with hesitation. It should be a given that he’d want him dead, shouldn’t it? But for him to be the one to do it? That form of justice pacified many a person but Q wasn’t sure it would apply to him. It was too much of a burden to carry. The life of another person, despite how monstrous they were.

“I say we all go in together.” Cas suggested, fixing the strap of her leather fingerless gloves. Q had designed them to have metal plating in the knuckles. They were cushioned so Holt wouldn’t feel them but her opponent surely would. “Try to persuade Swann to come quietly, keep our ranks close. If it gets ugly or Acerbi- Novak shows, Bond can get Q out and call for backup.”

“You don’t think I can take them?” Bond asked jokingly.

“I don’t think you’re capable of taking on your ex,” Cas replied smoothly. “And in any case I don’t know a single agent who’s keen to beat a woman down in a fight. I can handle Swann. And Novak if necessary.”

“Fair enough.” James nodded. He placed his hand on Q’s shoulder, running in back and forth in what was meant to be a soothing manner but because of his high strung nerves only made him jump. “Holding in there?”

“I’m fine.” Q said, but he knew that was a lie when he realized he’d been holding his breath. He forced himself to relax his shoulders and breathe.

They got to the suite and Bond urgently waved Q and Cassandra to the side, taking a few steps back before successfully kicking the door down on his second attempt. A loud resounding crack split the tranquil silence of the hall and Cas drew her weapon, covering them as they entered the room.

The atmosphere felt frigid and tense all of a sudden, as if they’d been trapped inside of a freezer.

Unexpectedly, Madeleine Swann stood with her back to them looking out of the doors to her terrace, seemingly unperturbed by their violent entry. She calmly raised her arms from her sides, lacing her hands behind her now coppery red hair. Olive green trench coat, combat boots, tight black pants. She looked like a parody of a soldier.

“Hello, Madeleine.” Bond took a step towards her. It felt compulsive and he forced himself to refrain from taking another.

“Hello, James.” her accented voice floated back to them and she turned around, lowering her arms to fold them neatly across her chest. Her icy eyes picked at the trio, dissecting them. They rested somewhere over James’s shoulder where he knew Q to be and her lip curled. Recognition. “Come to kill me?”

“I was rather hoping it wouldn’t come to that.” He replied, tilting his head just a bit. Holt swept around him and scanned the room, checking the bathroom and closet before returning to guarding the busted door.

“Oh, it will.” Swann’s cold smile wouldn’t reach her eyes. Something in him felt a pang at those words. This was the woman he fell in love with, after all. It was difficult to just shut that down within a day, the paradigm shift too great to take in at once.

“Where are Ransom Novak and Oberhauser?”

“Who?” she looked like she was enjoying herself.

“Acerbi and Blofeld.” James rephrased, taking another step closer. “We know Acerbi has Aegis and that he’s after our quartermaster.”

“You know that, do you?”

“Yes.”

“I can make a deal,” Madeleine proposed, ruby red lips parting into a charming smile. “Hand over the young man and I’ll gladly tell you anything you wish.”

Q stiffened and Bond unconsciously felt himself shifting to hide him from her view. Unease prickled at his neck.

“Not that it’s going to happen…” Bond said slowly, attempting to piece together her reasoning and not coming up with anything. “But why would you want him?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Acerbi likes to break things. He doesn’t like when those things get away.”

“Bond…” Q said quietly, breaking her spell. He looked to his friend and followed his gaze down to the pearlescent floor by the bed where a lazy tide of crimson was leaking from under it. Blood.

The woman before them noticed the new focus of their attention and scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Can you believe them? I break Blofeld out, I get close to James Bond, I spend a year playing house but because I fail to keep him distracted for long enough they assign me a handler first thing this morning. We had a bit of an altercation before you arrived. Suffice to say, she was taken care of.”

“I’m sorry but if we’re going to be bragging about kill counts I think you’ll find yourself at a disadvantage.” Bond informed her, sliding his Walther from its holster. He didn’t have the intention of shooting her but he was hoping there was a fraction of a chance she didn’t know that.

Madeleine laughed, clear and amused. “Oh, I think we’ll be evenly matched.” Then, raising her voice, “Jetzt!”

The terrace doors burst open with such force that the panes shattered against the walls sensing glass skittering across the tiles. A masked man entered the room and began firing with abandon.

“Get down!” Cas shouted, already pouncing on Q and falling with him to the ground. She shielded his skull in the crook of her arm but his shoulder smacked painfully off the floor.

James shot the man in the arm, causing him to drop his weapon but he was close enough to wrench Bond’s from him, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him into the wall. Madeleine took rapid strides across the room, stepping over Q and Holt and almost making it to the door. Holt’s hand shot out and latched onto Swann’s ankle. The woman cried out and hit the ground hard, groaning. She kicked out with her free foot and connected solidly with Holt’s jaw with enough force to leave an ugly bruise.

The agent felt the taste of copper explode across her teeth and she pushed Q urgently, hoping to get him safely out of the way. He got the message and scrambled to the nearest wall. She and Swann rose to their feet at nearly the same time, but Cas was quicker, slamming her hand into her throat and stunning her. Wretched gagging sounds came from Swann and she stared, shocked and unable to breathe.

“Try again, bitch.” Cas snarled, wiping the blood from her mouth and beckoning with her other hand.

Instead of accepting the challenge, Madeleine turned to flee. Cassandra caught her by the arm and threw her back into the room, causing her to go sprawling over a sofa. The man who had detained Bond had long since released him, his eyes red and damaged from where Bond had pressed his thumbs in. The fight was unmatched with only one good arm on Bond’s part so Cas took a knife from her belt and jumped on the attacker’s back, plunging it into his chest. He cried out in agony and threw her clear but she landed on the bed, rolling off onto her feet in less than a second.

“All yours, Bond!” She called to him, pulling the garrote wire from her hair and advancing on Swann, practically spitting with rage.

“I’m beginning to see why the other double-o’s like having partners.” Bond grunted, kicking the man between the legs to stop him long enough in order to pull the knife free and stick it under his collarbone. It was slick with blood but the matte grip certainly helped. He shoved him to the floor and picked up his gun, effectively eliminating the challenge.

“Speaking of partners, I think it’s time you got Q out of here.” Holt held a struggling Madeleine to her chest, the garrote almost like a collar. Swann pulled at the cord but her fingertips came away bloody and raw and Cas pulled it tighter against her throat, discouraging another attempt.

“Q-” Bond turned to locate him and found nothing. Panic surged within him and he rounded on Madeleine who was laughing with blood stained teeth. Sick realization dawned on him far too late. “This was an ambush.” _To get Q._

“Acerbi won’t touch him yet.” She grinned wickedly, contorting her features into something truly heinous. “He doesn’t have to. He just wants to have a little fun before the real game starts.”

“Bond.” Cas breathed, eyes wide with distress. “Go. Find him!”

He all but fled from the room, crashing into the door across the hall before righting himself, adrenaline buzzing in his veins and head.

James spotted him near the end of the hall by the lift, held in the air by his arms and legs by a group of dark clothed and masked individuals just like the man in Madeleine’s room. He was thrashing wildly like a fish on a hook and a hand clamped over his mouth was muffling his shouts for help. In all of the commotion nobody had noticed a thing. If he had called out it would have been masked by the sounds of the fight.

“HEY!” Bond shouted, firing a single shot down the hall. He struck one of the men in the back and he fell, freeing one of Q’s legs. Before he could safely take aim at another he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and he crumpled to the ground.

Q tried to scream when he saw Bond go down but the noise was lost against the gloved palm of an assailant. The lift doors opened and they threw him inside roughly, causing him to roll against the opposite wall. Panic allowed him to move quickly and get back on his feet to keep the doors from closing and trapping him inside but too many pairs of arms pushed him back. Then someone was holding a slim metal canister, pressing down on the top with their finger, an aerosolized mist spraying into Q’s face.

He accidentally gasped and inhaled some, falling backwards as he grabbed at his throat and coughed, some form of drug taking effect. He slid to the ground just as he heard Cas outside shouting for him.

The doors closed and he grabbed a rail, pulling himself to his feet and falling back to his knees as his legs gave out. He barely registered the pain lancing through his shins and his arm shakily reached out for the panel of buttons to hit the one that would open the doors but his vision swam and he couldn’t tell which one…

Fists pounded on the metal outside and he could hear Cas yelling some more… what was she saying?

The elevator lurched and Q felt the car descend a bit, presumably between floors.

_“Quartermaster, report!”_ a familiar sounding voice came from hidden speakers, the words surrounding him from all sides. It had to be speakers, there was no second person in any of the mirrors. Perhaps they were in the walls or ceiling…

Whatever drug he’d been sprayed with must have only been meant to last a short while because he found himself able to stand again.

_“Come on, don’t ignore me.”_ It wasn’t Tanner or Ives or M… but why was it so familiar? Perhaps he’d heard it a long time ago, an old agent-

“I didn’t mean to ignore-” Q began, but a new voice- a woman’s- cut him off.

She laughed. _“Leave him alone, Edgar, you know he’s not ignoring you. He’s too focused on his puzzle.”_

Edgar? Edgar Marks?

_“Unless either of you two know the name of the tallest church in Iceland you can be quiet.”_ a second man responded, laughing good naturedly.

Q froze and felt himself unable to breathe.

“...Dad?”

_“Oh, shut up Remus.”_ the woman laughed too. _“And it’s Hallgrímskirkja. I went there last year.”_

_“Alene, I hope you realize there’s no way I can spell that. I’ve only got the ‘a’ at the end.”_

_“Vera, you know how to spell Hallgrímskirkja, don’t you?”_

_“I’m not sure even you do!”_ The woman named Vera called back.

“What is this?” Q said out loud, turning in a circle and pounding his fist against the walls of the lift. He was yelling now. “WHAT IS THIS?!”

_“Why do you have all these crossword puzzles?”_ A new man. Paper rustled.

_“My son kept taking them out of every newspaper we got and amassed a collection over the years.”_ Remus explained. Q almost smiled. He remembered that well. _“He decided to give me some for this flight, thought it would help my nerves.”_

A wave of nausea slammed into Q so hard he backed into a wall, gripping the railing so tight his knuckles turned an alabaster white.

Q did that the morning Remus died.

‘This flight.’

“Oh my God… oh God, no…”

The conversation playing was from the inside of the plane. Before the explosion.

“You’ve caught on now, haven’t you?” A man chuckled. This voice lacked the background noise of the plane and its other passengers, clearer, but familiar as well. “I don’t know why I wanted to plant recording devices in the first place but I’m incredibly glad I had the insight to do so because now I get to share this with you.”

He could taste bile in the back of his throat and fought to not gag, reaching with an instead hand for the small screwdriver kit he kept in his pocket. “Ransom Novak.”

“Icarus Quinn Saoi. Oh, that’s clever, you’re going to try and override the control panel, aren’t you?”

Q finally saw the small security camera nestled in the top corner of the space.

“You don’t have to do that.” Novak purred. “I’ll let you out as soon as I’m done with you. There’s still some things I’d like you to hear. Au revoir for now. Enjoy the ride.”

_“-why don’t you ask Michael? Lowden, how’s it looking?”_ Edgar asked.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Q swore at the camera. Of course, nothing happened and there was no response.

_“We should be arriving in Moscow within the next two hours.”_ Michael Lowden replied. _“But if you meant the view, it’s spectacular.”_

Q opened the kit and crouched in front of the panel, working on unscrewing the bolts from the first two corners of the panel. He had no prior knowledge of tampering with this kind of thing and sincerely hoped that deductive reasoning would be enough. If only his damn hands would stop shaking-

_“Don’t tell us you still have that picture of me on your windshield.”_ Edgar joked.

_“You know, Marks, why don’t you just-”_

A loud, thunderous explosion sounded, accompanied by the deafening sounds of metal tearing, alarms blaring, and, soon, screaming.

Q cried out in surprise and clapped his hands over his ears, dropping his tools. The lights began to flicker on and off and without warning the compartment began to descend at a dangerous speed.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Q scrambled to try and recover the screwdrivers but the sounds from the plane were too great and he was forced to cover his ears once again, kicking his feet against the slick floor and pushing himself into a corner. He could hear his own blood pounding in his head, feel the painful pounding of his heart against his sternum like it was trying to escape same as him. He would be fine, Bond or Holt would find a way to get him out, all he had to do was not panic-

_“HUGH, VERA!”_ Remus was shouting. Alene was doing the same and another woman was screaming. Their friends must have been torn from the craft as the explosion devastated and removed the tail end of the plane. The pain and sheer horror seemed to be contagious and Q waited for the elevator to hit whatever was at the bottom of the shaft but it slowed to a stop.

And then rocketed back up, throwing him forward onto his chest as it lurched hazardously.

“STOP THIS, STOP IT!” Q screamed into the floor, feeling tears begin to fall freely from his eyes.

_“FUCK, HOLY SHIT-”_ Edgar yelled over the din, his words nearly swallowed by the roaring winds and alarms. _“AKARI! Kari, it’s okay, I’ve got you!”_

_“ALENE, BUCKLE UP TIGHT, DON’T MOVE!”_ Remus instructed. _“Mike! CHRIST! Ed, Michael’s unconscious, I’ve got to land this bloody thing!”_

_“Are you INSANE?! Who even knows if the wheels will deploy at this point?!”_

_“I have to try! Alene, sweetheart, listen to me, focus on me, it’s all going to be fine, okay? You’re going to be fine- Edgar, buckle Kari in!- Listen to me, Lena, you’re going to be okay.”_

_“I don’t want to be the one that’s going to be okay, you’re the one with a child and a family, I’ve only got you-”_

_“I’ll do my best to be okay too.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Cross my heart.”_

The plane’s alarms indicating engine failure kept sounding and the lift slowed again. Q pulled the gun from his pocket and shot at the panel until it was empty, but it was too late to prevent him from hearing the hellish sound of the plane impacting the ground. Sparks flew from the metal and the lift stopped completely. The audio stopped and silence flooded the small space at last. He threw the gun aside and pulled his knees to his chest, covering his head with his arms and trying to steady his breathing but he couldn’t stop trembling.

“Q!”

He could have sobbed with joy.

_Bond. It was Bond._

“I’m here!” He croaked, wiping at his eyes.

Metal groaned as the doors were forced apart. Bond threw aside a crowbar, looking down at him with such blatant relief of his face. The lift had stopped between floors again so Bond held his arms out for Q to grab onto.

“It’s okay Q, come on, I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.” Bond vowed, smiling encouragingly at him. His lip was split but his eyes were alive with determination. Q could hear his father’s words to the woman on the plane, Alene, echoed in James’s.

He slowly rose to his feet, locking his knees so they would give out beneath him and mechanically moving towards James.

“Now grab my arms- a bit further up, good, now mind your head.” James held Q’s elbows firmly and pulled him through the opening and onto the floor beside him without much effort.

For a moment he thought his heart would burst just from looking at Bond. The mere sight of him brought a level of solace that Q didn’t know existed. If James said he was safe he would believe him wholeheartedly.

“What happened?” James asked with a gentleness that Q didn’t know he was capable of, tenderly holding the side of his face with a calloused hand.

Q opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a hoarse noise. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force out the sounds that bombarded his mind and were now stuck within it.

Wordlessly, James wrapped his arms around Q and pulled him to his chest, propping his chin on his head and curling his body around him in the embrace like a shield, rubbing his hand up and down his back. He held him until his breathing became regular and even, but even after that he still didn’t want to let him go. But they couldn’t stay there forever.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel.” He suggested, taking Q’s hands and bringing him to his feet. Bond wanted to go back in time and take up Arthur’s offer on going after M together. Q wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him. If his intention was to use the quartermaster as bait, it worked all too well, but not for them. James could punch M in the face. He might just do so after all of this was through. And Novak…

Bond would hunt him down even if it meant tearing the city apart. 


	9. Shadows of Suspicion

“Almost everything in life is about controlling interactions,” Blofeld touched the marred skin on the left side of his face, lips twitching distastefully at the memory of his defeat. His right eye had appeared clouded over like milk in water, forever unseeing. Even with the replacement glass one the irises still didn’t match perfectly and it did nothing to remedy his halved vision. Still, it gave him a modicum of normalcy. As if James Bond hadn’t taken away as much as he thought. “And that control is what we know as power. Now tell me honestly, how much control do you feel you have in this situation?”

Madeleine Swann swallowed with slight difficulty, her throat constricted by the bandage wound secure around it, covering the raw, bleeding cut from the female agent’s garotte. She had grabbed a knife from the woman’s belt and slashed it across her bicep, giving Swann the upper hand and allowing her to escape via a ladder extending from her terrace to the one below. The escape route was necessary once she was told Bond hadn’t been killed and agents were coming. She didn’t even think she would need it until she saw the CCTV of the lobby and the three on their way towards her.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. She came to Paris after being rid of her Bond babysitting duties to claim her rightful place on the council of Sceptre leaders. She deserved at least that after all her dedication, her whole life- instead, she was almost partially decapitated. For her loyalty she was given that.

The office she currently stood in belonged to a company that was one of Sceptre’s subsidiaries. Dark shades over the windows and the blue lights gave the room an almost spectral or futuristic look, but she knew what others didn’t: that it was merely meant to soothe the damaged eyes of the man at the desk.

Two guards stood at the doors, and her instincts told her that they were more concerned with containing her than keeping any form of threat out. Either Blofeld was afraid of her or he wanted her to fear him. This would be a stalemate.

To answer his question, however, she felt as in control as a captain whose ship was hijacked.

“You let Christopher Acerbi use me as bait.” Swann accused sharply instead of choosing to admit her own weakness to him. Her tongue felt as if it had barbs protruding from it. “Ondrus and Albrecht are dead and the soldiers who collected the quartermaster for his little puppet show barely got me out of the building after I escaped the agents!”

“And whose fault is it that Ondrus is dead?” Blofeld sat forward, placing his forearms on the desk. “Tidying under beds is always so tedious but I didn’t expect to find a corpse under yours, my dear. This puts a whole new meaning to ‘skeletons in the closet’.”

“You’re wasting your time scolding me when Acerbi is who you should be talking to.” Madeleine hissed, stalking over to a window and crossing her arms. They were all so incredibly insufferable, she could have just killed them all instead of having to go through this ridiculous little game. Childish. Immature. But it _had_ been enjoyable to see the looks on their faces when she told them of the danger surrounding the quartermaster. “He’s not even here! He is preoccupied with playing cat and mouse with the Saoi boy! If he wants him out of the way then I could have shot him an hour ago. And why is he _selling_ Aegis to you? If we’re on the same side he should benefit from you having as much as with him-”

Blofeld laughed, his scar distorting as he did so. “You’re running on outdated information, Miss Swann. Aegis was stolen from us many months ago. It’s been over a decade and still no one has been able to fully activate it.”

“Not for lack of trying.” a new voice floated from the darkness.

Swann whipped her head around to see a figure seated in a chair beside the bookshelf, enshrouded in shadow, the lights not reaching them. Their bulky clothing made it difficult to discern gender and their voice was… off. There was an unidentifiable accent but it was more than that. The voice was unnatural, like it was being put through a modifier. Oh, yes, she could barely see the device in their hand.

No voice, no gender, no face. Clever.

Or cowardly.

“Why do you hide?” Swann took a step towards the person, raising an arm to swipe the blank mask from their face. She stopped dead in her tracks when twin clicks reached her ears. The guards had drawn their weapons.

The person chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound through the modifier. “There is no advantage to knowing my identity. I do not fight with my fists and I do not charm with my smile. My anonymity is what makes me good at what I do, and you, Miss Swann, are going to help me.”

“How, exactly?” Madeleine asked, defensive, but curious.

“By fighting with your fists and charming with your smile.” They replied smoothly.

Swann laughed coldly and turned to Blofeld. “I’m done being a footsoldier. I’m capable of more than this and you know it.”

Blofeld moved faster than she thought he could. In seconds he was in front of her, hand clasped around her jaw, not enough to bruise, but enough to get her attention.

“Little swan,” he crooned, his disturbing eyes passing over her defiant ones. “Need I remind you that I saw everything that occurred at the hotel? Instead of fighting the agent you turned to run away. You were afraid of her. If she sends you running then that tells me you’re not ready for the board. You have yet to prove yourself to me so I suggest you end your whining before I have to do something about it.”

Blofeld released her and returned to his seat. The hidden form let out a faint wheeze which sounded suspiciously like a concealed laugh.

“The reason we are all in Paris is for the beginning of the end. Our mole in MI6 failed to conceal our activities and we have had to…” Blofeld searched for a suitable word. “scramble…to accommodate for the new players in the game. They informed us on the deployment of agents by M and a man named Taron Ives, allowing for Acerbi to piece together that interesting situation with Icarus Saoi overnight. For all of his aid in building Sceptre from Spectre’s ashes, well,” he spread his hands. “far be it from us to deny him the pleasure of toying with his prey. James Bond is from a dying era of suave spies and patriotic espionage. Leave him alive so he can watch us bleed his golden empire into a sallow husk. So I can destroy him slowly in the way he deserves.”

“But first,” the shadow interjected. “We need Aegis. I know what to do with it. Once it is usable it will have the ability to do what Max Denbigh failed to complete and more, all from your own secure servers.”

“You’re a hacker.” Swann scoffed. “We have hackers.”

“None like me.” they assured, no longer amused as they were before. “Aegis is being auctioned off in an event tonight to fools who want to take a crack at the billion dollar puzzle and get their spendings back tenfold. Moderate level terrorists and syndicates. You, Swann, in the company of Acerbi, are going to steal it back. Nine o’clock at the Hotel du Collectionneur, just like the message you were sent last night. The building has been booked for the auction, funded by God knows how many shadow operations. Show up looking nice, get Aegis, and bring it to me. I’ll deal with the quartermaster and the agents after the fact. I can send them off your trail long enough to get out of the country.”

Blofeld looked extremely pleased with himself, despite his employee having done all of the talking. Perhaps he was just happy to recognize a level of competence in those working for him, rather than snivelling, low level mercenaries.

“You will do this, Miss Swann,” Blofeld said slowly, choosing that exact moment to polish his letter opener with a silk cloth. “And if you do not succeed I fear our use for you and your pretty face will decrease exponentially.”

Swann bit back a scathing retort to the threat, turning back to the other person. “If I’m going to be working with,” not for. “you, I’d like a name.”

The shadow rose, their free hand bringing a polished walking stick that she had not seen in front of them, using it to unsteadily shuffle towards her. Through the eyes of the mask two green irises stared back. Colored contact lenses. Nothing about this person was real. Perhaps even the need for their cane. They raised the modifier to their masked lips, and Swann decided to guess that this was a man. A young man playing dress up, mind full of far too many video games and fantasies. But that mind was also the most dangerous part about them. Him.

“You can call me Dutch.”

-

When Q got back to the hotel room he immediately shut himself in the bathroom and stumbled into the shower stall, turning both knobs and sliding to the tiled floor as water began to spray onto him, soaking his clothes. With a frustrated cry he threw his socks, shoes, glasses, and phone onto the rug in front of the sink and pulled his knees to his chest, closing his eyes.

The warm water made it impossible to tell what were tears and what weren’t and he supposed he was okay with that. Their screams wouldn’t vacate his mind, they were dashing themselves on the bars like trapped birds, clawing and tearing…

His hands fisted themselves into his hair and he let out a silent scream, forcing only air out and no sound, shoulders shaking with sobs. Q’s own nightmares had supplied him with their own details regarding the fateful flight but they could never masquerade the truth that two agents had been torn from the plane after the explosion, that the remaining members on the craft died painfully and in fear, holding only false hope and broken promises.

He knew this was how Novak operated. He broke people down like he broke down networks and nations, slowly and painfully until they submitted and left him in peace. Novak would do to him what he did to his father, terrorize him and force him to quit, drive him into hiding so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the mess of killing him.

_Well it’s working. You’re breaking me. No wonder this is what you do. It’s so bloody effective, isn’t it?_

Q dreamt about that plane for years. He dreamt about the crossword puzzles, each asking the same questions, why, why, why, why, why did they have to die, and no answer would fit, he dreamt about embracing his father one last time until flames consumed them, but now he knew that never happened, that he’d died trying to save his friends, died of a broken neck or fractured skull or-

“Q?” Bond tapped on the door. “Q, I’m assuming you’re decent because you didn’t take a change of clothes in with you. I’m coming in so this is your chance to tell me if I should avert my eyes or something.”

He looked up and said nothing, watching through bleary eyes as the door opened and Bond crossed in front of the fogged over mirror, passing through the steadily building cloud of steam in the room like a spectre. His blue eyes shone like the beacons that directed lost ships to shore and the second they met Q’s he knew something happened, he just couldn’t explain what. Wordlessly, Bond removed his holster and set it on the counter, removing the clip from his gun and putting it aside, disarming himself. It was paced, like he meant for Q to understand that his weapons wouldn’t be any danger to him. Not that he thought that in the first place. The backup on his ankle was gone as well and he kicked his shoes off, tugging at his socks, shucking off his coat, and stepping under the spray of water before sitting beside Q and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close again.

James felt Q slowly relax against him, grabbing at the front of his shirt tentatively, minimizing distance. He reached over and brushed the damp curls from Q’s forehead, feeling a slight surge of warmth when the younger man didn’t flinch away.

There was a strange and uncomfortable pitting feeling in his stomach when he realized how similar this was to when Vesper, traumatised from witnessing James kill someone, sat on the floor of the shower in her evening dress and tried to wash the experience from her being. He was doing the same thing as he did then, sitting alongside and comforting. Q and Vesper had the same silent strength as well as their muted vulnerabilities. They were innocents in a world of sin and there was no escaping it. He didn’t want Q to become collateral damage. Perhaps it was too late and he was already on that road. Whatever Novak did… it was more than just throw him into a lift and lock the doors.

He could feel it impact his heart. Seeing Q in this state did something, it felt destabilizing, unsettling. Q who was always so put together in his suits and sweaters, in such perfect control of his workshop environment, suave and witty and composed now picked apart by a criminal who had already taken too much. Not this though. He wouldn’t get Q.

Five minutes of silence passed before he spoke.

“I’m here to listen,” James muttered against the side of the quartermaster’s head. His shoulders were so bony he could feel the blades protrude like wings beneath his jacket. His mother used to call them ‘angel bones’, and now he knew why. “If you want to tell me.”

Q remained quiet, eyes blank, perhaps stuck in his mind somewhere, overthinking, overanalyzing, a danger to others, a danger to himself.

“Q.” James tilted his chin up with a finger so he could meet his gaze, hoping to draw him out. “Q.”

Then they cleared, those eyes that were indecisively pale green or laced with the blue of rain laden clouds.

“Bond.” It was phrased almost like a question. Perhaps he thought James was asking one when he said his name.

“James,” James found himself saying. “You don’t always have to call me Bond.”

He swore he saw the flicker of a smile pass across his face as water cascaded down the bridge of his nose. Oh, damn, they were both soaking wet.

“Let’s get you out of here, okay?” James reached over and switched off the water, keeping his arms around Q and aiding him to his feet. Once he got him standing he snagged a couple towels from the rack and tried to dry him off as best he could, the man surprisingly unmoving and barely responsive.

 _He needs some time._ James thought. _He’s not like you, he’s not trained to pick up after a trauma and carry on right away like a perfect little soldier._

Spotting a hair dryer strung up in a linen bag, he took it out and plugged it in, beginning to dry Q’s hair. There was absolute silence besides the light humming drone of the small machine as James maneuvered Q’s head, tilting it this way and that to get rid of the dampness.

He looked around at the water on the floor, soaked towels, and his own wet clothing. “I’ll take care of all this in a bit. You can change into some new clothes and I’ll take things to the dryer down the hall. I can use Cas’s room to dress since she’s been out for a bit.”

That seemed to spark his attention and he finally spoke, his voice slightly cracked and brittle. “Where’s Cas?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” James said honestly. “She lost Swann and then said she was going to get a dress and would explain later. She was more worried about me making sure you got back here safely.”

“She won’t mind that you’re in her room?”

“Well it’s not like she has anything to hide, right?” he grinned.

Q’s lips quirked into a small smile and she shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Actually, I wouldn’t know if she did- it’s just… you’re going to get her room all wet. Like the Seine took a wrong turn.”

There he was. There was Q. Novak’s damage wasn’t absolute.

 _Take that, you bastard_. Bond thought triumphantly.

He laughed and ruffled Q’s newly dried hair, soft like a bird’s downy feathers shaped into coffee dark waves under his fingers. “Rough, tough, double-o like her? She won’t mind.”

James gathered some dry clothes and left for Holt’s room. Q picked out some more of his own and dried his feet on one of the towels strewn on the floor and peeled the wet clothing off. Not wanting to make more of a mess he closed the glass door around the shower and hung everything over the top. He found his glasses and phone and made his way to his bed, flipping his laptop open. It was as if Bond had somehow transferred some surety and confidence to him, his support strengthening Q’s own infrastructure.

Somehow he didn’t feel embarrassed about Bond- James- being present during his breakdown. It felt like something… almost _crucial_ in their relationship. Relationship. That was definitely something they were developing. Not that they didn’t have one before, but this time around it was just different, it was new, like they were picking up from a checkpoint. For years they were colleagues, allies, friends. Q had even fallen in love with him! He’d loved him for being strong and caring and just being _James_ , but the truth of it was that he hadn’t given Bond a chance. He hadn’t told him about his depression until last night. He’d wanted to be close to Bond but never thought to let Bond get close to him. It felt right that it was changing now. There could be hope.

He tried to dash the thought from his mind. He couldn’t be preoccupied by that now, not with the mission. Not when Novak was out there. Q needed to work, he needed to distract himself from any destructive train of thought and avoid breaking down again. That would only give Novak what he wanted. He couldn’t help him along to his goal.

No, he was going to find him. He was going to get Aegis and take them down.

Ransom Novak would face another quartermaster and lose.

The voices had faded to an echo in his mind, the terror still fresh but manageable. His hands had adopted a slight tremor before but it was steadily decreasing, the aftershocks of the breakdown subsiding.

Bond passed through the room and gathered the clothes and towels from the bathroom, out of the door as quickly as he’d come in.

Q cast a virtual net over all web activity in the city and a bit outside, filtering it with key words and names pertaining to Sceptre, certain phrases and modes of encryption he’d been tracing the past year and after a few minutes found a server on the other side of the city that had sent two messages referencing an “Aegis”. Q delved into the first one easily, bypassing standard, pre installed software and checked the search history and ownership of the device, finding it to be a student working on a mythology project. The second, however, was heavily encrypted. End-to-end, just how Sceptre did it. The last time he found one of these messages he hadn’t been able to read it, but he gave a knowing smile at his screen. That was months ago. Things had changed since then.

James came back into their shared room with two cups of tea and set one on Q’s nightstand, steam curling from it like a searching tendril. Apparently he’d had time to figure out the electric kettle in Cas’s room.

“English Breakfast,” Bond raised his hotel mug in a sort of toast before sitting on the edge of his own bed, watching Q typing away furiously. “You seem to be in better spirits now. Would you allow my ego to take some credit?”

“You can take all of it,” Q snorted, taking a sip of the tea. “You made me think a lot and I can’t let this weigh me down right now. I don’t…” he bit his lip. “I don’t think I’m going to be okay for a bit. But I can manage this. I always find a way.”

“You’re stronger than people think.” James said sagely. A beat of silence. “Have you found anything interesting?”

Q nodded, happy to change the subject. He wiped at his eyes under his glasses and tilted his screen towards James. “It’s a message to Novak,” he explained, pointing at the recipient’s name. “Ives never shared with us that they suspected Acerbi was Novak, but it makes sense now. His code name for these messages is Cairn. The first two letters are the initials of Christopher Acerbi, the last two are Ransom Novak, and the ‘i’ just brings it together.”

“Can you decrypt it?”

He frowned and looked at him questioningly. “I just have.”

“I meant translate,” Bond moved over to sit on the side of Q’s bed so he could see the screen clearer. “What is this language? It’s not German, but it-”

“It’s Dutch.” Q said. “It makes sense since Novak just arrived from Amsterdam.” With a few keystrokes he translated it to English and began to read it. “It’s information about an auction at a hotel across the city. They’re going to steal…”

They’re going to steal Aegis.

James read the words the same time as he did, the initial confusion and realization occurring in harmony.

“They don’t have Aegis.” Bond said quietly. “Ives was wrong. Our information was wrong. They don’t have it.”

“But they will.” Q scanned the message. “Novak and Swann are going to acquire it somehow and I can’t visualize the two sitting in seats and raising paddles hoping to get lucky and not be outbid, can you?”

The agent shook his head grimly. “They’re going to steal it.”

Cas’s door closed and the woman poked her head into their room, smiling broadly. “Actually, _we_ are.” She raised a large shopping bag triumphantly and Q swore he could see the bulge of a bandage under her sleeve. “I found the same message on the phone Swann left at the suite when she escaped and I realized that I just didn’t have the right outfit to walk into an exclusive criminal auction such as this.”

Bond tilted his head. “Well you’ve certainly been busy. Why didn’t you tell us?”

She shrugged, but it was really just a light switch if her shoulders. “I just wanted to act as quickly as possible and I didn’t think it would make that much of a difference if you got the information half an hour later seeing as your priority was to get Q back here safe and sound. We’ve got all day before the auction so we’d better get to planning.”

Cas ducked back into her room to put her new purchases away, and then there was an exclamation.

“Who the hell turned my bathroom into a pond?”

Q took one look at James’s grinning face and burst out laughing, turning and burying his face into a pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate everyone’s supportive comments, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see feedback on my work! If you have any questions or want to say something nice or helpful drop a comment and I’ll likely answer. I’m always looking for ways to improve.  
> Thank you to everyone reading up to this point, I hope to keep the story going for many chapters to come


	10. Ocular Vice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most intense chapter I’ve written so far (and the longest) and things are only about to get worse for our favorite spies, so apologies in advance. Also the title of this chapter was inspired by the song with the lyrics being “putting on a disguise, it’s an ocular vice”. Seemed appropriate seeing as many people in this are disguising themselves in various ways. Anyway, let the story commence!

Paris truly came alive at night it seemed. It was almost as if the city was in a period of dormancy during the day compared to the vast expanse of lights like the stars had fallen and taken up residence on the tops of buildings, lining avenues and awnings, bathing the city in the golden light the retired sun no longer needed. The sky had become a deep indigo, faint streaks of blue and green visible in the distance where the sun had set, a delicate silver where the moon loitered behind sheets of wispy Autumn clouds.

The auction would begin within the next two hours.

They had no way of knowing who the seller was so Bond and Holt would have to track Swann and Novak’s movements through the event and hope they would be led to the hard drive. After some further research on Q’s end he found that it was to be a masquerade type affair and everyone would be presented with a mask at the door for discretionary purposes. A hotel full of the world’s criminals demanded anonymity should any disputes arise. This was both a blessing and a curse. While Swann and Novak would not recognize James and Cas, the agents would not be able to identify the two operatives as easily as they hoped.

Unsurprisingly, Bond had packed a tux, dressing up and looking as dapper and old fashioned as ever. A martini in his hand and the image would be complete. He’d seen James in this attire dozens of times but it never failed to strike him mildly speechless. He looked to the other agent before it seemed like he was staring. 

Cas had transformed herself into a goddess.

Her rich red chiffon gown rippled with every step like the tides rolling from a sea of dark wine. There was a slit in the side that bared one leg but concealed the other, meaning there was likely a holster there, and the neck was a diagonal line across her collarbones. While one arm was sleeveless, the other had one that fell to her wrist. It was such luck that it was the arm Swann had cut, meaning her injury would be concealed and not raise any questions. Q didn’t know the first thing about makeup but there was no question that she looked flawless. The bruise from Madeleine’s kick had been artfully hidden by concealer. She’d done her hair up and wound it behind her head with pins that had razor sharp tips so she’d never be without her blades. Freud would suggest she was overcompensating and relate it to something phallic but that was the furthest thing from the truth. Anyone would be already intimidated just by her alone. The needles were her own personal touch.

As someone who wasn’t attracted to women, Q could objectively say that she looked positively gorgeous.

“You look beautiful.” Q decided to tell her.

She beamed at him and gave him a one armed embrace. “You’re too sweet.” Cas looked to Q’s laptop on the desk. “Our trackers are working, right?”

“Right as rain.” Q affirmed, taking a small box out of his bag and handing Cas and Bond each a flesh toned earpiece for communication.

“I’d like to clear the air right away by saying that Bond, I have no intention of ever sleeping with you so I’d advise against any attempts at seduction,” Cas fit the earpiece in and laced up a pair of sandals that reached three quarters of the way up her shin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Bond vowed, and there was no playful tone to be found. He sincerely meant it. “And it’s certainly not because you’d have a knife to my neck the moment I tried.”

“You’re right.” Cas smiled sweetly, her earthy eyes dancing with mirth. “I think the knife would be much lower than that.”

“For the love of whatever higher power is out there can you two _not_ discuss castration when I’m trying to set up base here?” Q said from under the desk, fitting his routers and devices into the absurdly placed and limited outlets. “I’d almost be more comfortable if you were flirting.” An absolute lie.

“Yes, sir.” Q could practically hear the mock salute from James.

He got out from beneath the desk and took a seat in the office chair, feeling much more in his element situated at a desk. The staff had given him some old computer monitors from the hotel’s storage room upon request and he didn’t feel entirely disadvantaged by not being in Q-Branch.

“Best of luck to you both,” Q smiled encouragingly at them, looking past the two through the glass of the terrace doors. Somewhere out there a world changing event would occur. Someone would end up with Aegis. No, it had to be them.

“I’ll text a progress report to M.” Cas was already halfway out of the door, her earthy eyes shining with excitement and anticipation. “We’d better get to the car, we’re wasting time.”

“If we’re lucky we can end this tonight.” Bond fit on a pair of cufflinks and adjusted the holster beneath his suit jacket. The thought was oddly comforting. A bit of hope, something to strive for.

-

Bond had rented a luxurious silver sports car to drive from their hotel, something Cas was sure M’s lips would curl at when he got their expense report. They parked a few streets over and joined the tide of people milling about the sidewalks, making their way to the hotel where the auction would take place. She allowed Bond to escort her into the building, smiling serenely and attempting to fit in. No questions were asked upon entry, masks merely pressed into their hands. Hers was white with gold details, a few faux garnets adhered along one side resembling crystallized drops of blood. Bond’s was black with dark feathers that had a blue and purple sheen as the light moved across it.

It was almost exhilarating, the moment they got through the sparse crowd within the building and stepped into the courtyard garden. Fairy lights and paper lanterns were strung up along the hedges that lines the incredibly vast space. It was completely closed in by the hotel, but the fact that it even existed was spectacular. The lights from rooms washed over everything, making it almost ethereal. A large patio space was cleared out and a long table and podium stood, flanked by a Greek looking statue of a woman casually covering her breasts. On the end they stood at there was a fountain with three mermaids on a platform arching their backs and reaching behind them, supporting a shell that water trickled out of. A breeze snuck in from over the roofs and Cassandra shivered a bit, looking up at the patch of sky above them.

A cellist tuned their instrument in the patio, sending a hauntingly sononours note floating around them.

“This place is spectacular,” Holt linked her arm through Bond’s, looking around and trying to hide her blatant awe. It was so mythical. Tropical plants, statues, lights, the people in elegant attire and beautiful masks, laughing and talking like revelers at an ancient festival.

But they were all murderers, thieves, and terrorists. The contrast of the setting was artistically pleasing in that sense. The lights of the building and the darkness within the people, the beauty and the wickedness.

Bond chuckled. “Don’t enjoy it too much, we still need to find Swann and Novak. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Orderlies in pristine suits began to cart boxes and cases towards the long table. The items for auction.

“Let’s move up there.” Cas suggested. She touched her earpiece and pretended to brush a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “Q, are you seeing anything?”

_“I’ve already run the faces inside of the building through a facial recognition software. Even with just the lower halves of their faces I know that your targets aren’t inside. I only have a few cameras in the courtyard and I can’t get enough complete faces. How many would you say there are?”_

“About three dozen.” Bond murmured in response, swiping two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. “Here you are, Miss Holt.”

“Why thank you, Mister Bond.” She took the glasses with a smile and immediately placed them back on another tray. “No distractions. Start looking.”

“You’re no fun.” He cast a sideways glance at her but smiled nonetheless.

They scanned each passing member of the crowd as they made their way to the patio space but it was difficult with people walking away and in front of them, constantly moving and shifting. It was almost impossible not to make it obvious, but they managed to get halfway there.

“Pardon me.” A gloved hand slid along her bare shoulder and she turned to see a woman walking away from her. Her purse bumped against Cas’s leg as she moved past, weaving down the path.

Cas quickly turned her head towards the table and saw a tall, dark haired man in discussion with the orderlies at the table, their attentions collectively focused on him. A distraction.

The woman-

Holt looked in the direction she went and caught a glimpse of pale blonde hair pinned up against the back of her head. A white fabric choker around her neck with silver clasps juxtaposed the black of her dress.

A choker to perhaps disguise a wound. A wound from a _garrote_.

“Bond, watch the man at the table.” Holt felt as if she was thrumming with energy, muscles twitching to move, but she forced herself to be patient for a moment so as to not give them away. “Q, did you see the woman who touched my shoulder? Black dress, blonde hair, white choker.”

_“I’m waiting for a camera to catch her face…”_ Q hummed impatiently. _“Almost- oh, come on-”_

“Try the man in the all black suit at the auction table.” Bond supplied. They’d both gone still, causing people to have to move around them with a few irritated remarks.

Silence.

_“Ransom Novak. Get him, James.”_ The determination coming from him was as adamant as steel, and perhaps just as cold. Perhaps it was that he could afford to be since he had the comfort of knowing that he was many blocks away from the threat.

“On it.” Bond tapped Holt’s arm to let her know he was leaving and he began to push his way past people.

_“The side profile isn’t enough, there’s another woman with an identical one that turned away. Fifty five percent match, your woman is only at a forty. The neck of her dress is high, it could be her instead.”_

Cas watched as the woman in the black dress reached the fountain.

“Q, I need confirmation that the black dress is Swann.” Holt could feel her anxiety spike with each step the woman took towards the doors. Within moments she would be too far to apprehend without difficulty.

_“The height is right but that applies to half the women there. There isn’t a good enough angle on her face, I can’t-”_

An idea suddenly struck. “If she looked in my direction could you see her?”

_“Oh, that’s clever,”_ Q mused after a brief pause. _“Yes! Yes, there’s a camera that I can rotate that would get enough of her face for a confirmation. Are you sure you want to-”_

“Keep your eyes on both of them.” Cas instructed and put a hand to her forehead, smoothing her hair back. “You might want to turn your volume down.”

_“Done. But why?”_ The intonations of his voice indicated curiosity verging on concern.

She took a deep breath and cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling, “MADELEINE SWANN!”

Her voice resonated off the sides of the building around them.

Everyone froze.

The chatter stopped.

_“What the hell-”_ even Bond had halted on his way to Novak.

The woman in the black dress lost to her reflexes and spun around, shoulders and spine stiff as rods. Her mask was silver. Her lips were scarlet.

“Quartermaster-” Cas began.

_“It’s Swann. Go! GO!”_

The element of surprise was lost. Bond swore into his comm and jumped over the short hedges, bolting towards Novak. Holt drew her weapon and fired a shot into the air, eliciting screams, but more importantly moving people out of her way as she held the hem of her dress in one hand to keep it from tangling in her legs, gun secure in the other. The program had to be in Swann’s purse. She wasn’t going to allow her to escape this time, that failure would be unacceptable to her.

Her feet moved rapidly, almost autonomously, propelling her towards Swann. The woman lost no time in kicking her heels off before she disappeared into the building but Holt was only a few paces behind her. She threw herself into the crowd, hoping to hide, but she only slowed herself down, and when she drew her weapon from her purse it was accidentally knocked to the ground. Madeleine tore her mask off and Holt did the same.

Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments and Cas could feel the transfer of recognition, fear, desperation, and ruthless ambition.

_That’s right. You know me._ Holt thought.

Swann’s lips parted as if she were to say something, and Holt found herself slowing with a twisted curiosity, wanting to know what was about to happen.

And then the moment was broken. Shattered as Swann flipped a tray from a waiter’s hands. Glasses hit the stone floor and golden liquid sloshed over pairs of shoes that, added together, no doubt cost more than Cas’s annual cheque. The surprise cost her and Madeleine regained her head start, running down the hallway. Holt pursued her, pushing off walls as she rounded corners until they reached the front of the building and Madeleine fled out of the front doors.

“Bond, Swann’s on the street now!” Cas pushed through the doors, startling a valet. She looked to the left and saw a now deserted sidewalk. To the right was pale hair and dark fabric like the physical manifestation of a shadow disappearing into a black car down the block.

_“So is Novak, I’m chasing him through- gah!- bloody traffic!”_

“She’s about to drive off,” Cas advanced with her weapon, jogging into the street as Swann started her car and pulled out of the space. Headlights washed over the front of Holt’s gown, almost blinding her, and she backed up far enough to be able to see into the vehicle clearly, the other woman gripping the wheel with determination, a fire in her eyes that could be seen for miles.

_“We’re coming back down the street towards the hotel,”_ Bond informed her. She could see the headlights in the distance rapidly advancing on her location, and a third pair was added into the equation when Swann began to advance on Holt, showing not even the slightest sign of stopping. In response, the agent raised her gun and began firing into the windshield, each bullet perforation sending the sound of broken glass into the air. If at all possible, the ten seconds seemed to stretch into a whole minute, the world slowing down as Madeleine did the exact opposite. Her target wasn’t coming to a halt, in fact she had ducked down to avoid being hit so Cas began shooting at the tires, but she came to terms with the undeniable fact that if she didn’t move within the next three seconds she was going to be hit.

A sane person would’ve jumped out of the way, to the side, but Cas Holt was a double-o. Double-o seven.

Cas fired a final shot through the glass as Swann rose back up instinctively upon realizing she was about to strike something, and Holt threw herself upwards, twisting her body sideways and curling. There was a slight crack that she sincerely hoped wasn’t bone as she collided with the windshield, causing Swann to let out a high pitched noise of exclamation, and momentum carried her up and over the vehicle, metal passing beneath her and then nothing as she came to a rolling stop on the pavement, gasping heavily as she realized she’d been holding her breath.

_“HOLT, MOVE!”_ Q’s voice came through her earpiece, almost shrill with panic, and before her mind even decided to do anything her muscles threw her to the left as another vehicle sped past her, running over the end of her dress.

Bond’s silver car slowed to a stop and she pushed herself to her feet, getting in the passenger seat. He was driving again before her door even shut, nearly smashing into a parked car.

“Your ex is insane,” Cas braced a hand against the dashboard, coming down from the overpowering rush of adrenaline that had sent her head and limbs buzzing with energy.

Bond snorted. “Says the one that threw themselves at a moving car. There’s bullets in the glove compartment. And would you stop calling her my ex?”

“It’s not an incorrect title.” Cas slid her empty clip out and snapped a new one in as easy as breathing. It felt like a basic instinct at this point in her life.

“I’m aware of that, it’s just-” Bond tapped the steering wheel but by the tension in his muscles it was clear he barely restrained himself from giving it a brutal beating. “Holt, there’s two cars, we just have this one. If they split up we’re going to have to make a choice. Swann and Aegis or Novak.”

  
“Well, Swann and Aegis obviously-” but a thought interrupted that sentence immediately. If they chose to pursue Swann then they would undoubtedly be able to relieve her of the program in her purse and effectively neutralize her. But following that path meant that Novak would slip through their fingers like quicksilver.

And Q was alone, halfway across the city.

“Global security or our quartermaster.” Cas let out a breathy laugh, absolutely incredulous. It seemed like one of those decisions that could be easily made out of context but in the moment with her friend’s life at stake- it wouldn’t compute.

_“I’m keeping track of Swann through whatever security camera I can and I think I can safely say that Holt’s stunt wasn’t for nothing.”_ Q informed them, likely deliberately not addressing the fact that his safety- possibly his life- was on the line and in the hands of the two agents. _“Swann’s either been shot or she’s a bloody awful driver.”_

“Holt, I’m not making this choice.” Bond shook his head. “If you ever look that man in the eyes you’ll understand. I’m not letting him anywhere near Q.”

When he got to Novak, the man didn’t run. Not a first. The strangeness of that made Bond stop in his tracks and he was transfixed, frozen like he was in a gorgon’s gaze. The eyes of Ransom Novak were a startling clear blue, like ice in the frigid arctic waters. If they were truly windows to the soul they showed nothing within him. He had the hollowness of an empty room and the dark, fullness of the thick of night when the stars were snuffed out by clouds and the moon was a treasured memory. James had seen enough corpses to know when he was looking into eyes that held no life. He smiled like a man who’d lost his mind in a trade off for power, lips curling away from bone white teeth. He had the same look that Bond knew from Le Chiffre, Greene, White, Blofeld, and every villain he’d ever encountered multiplied ten times over. Just by being looked at he could feel Novak dissecting him, probing into his mind, not looking for anything, just wanting to see which wires he could pull to make him snap. Once he’d subjected Bond to those thoughts, he ran.

_“Bond- James-”_ Q’s voice was lighter than the air his words were held in. _“I appreciate the concern, but Aegis is… we don’t even know what it does, what it can do. I looked into the files and my father was petitioning M to stop the development before he was even halfway done. It’s dangerous. You have to get Aegis instead of Novak. You can’t let it go.”_

“Then we get them both.” Cas’s jaw went stiff. Up ahead there was a motorbike parked outside of a restaurant. It looked good and it looked fast. “Bond, that looks like a nice ride.”

He saw where she was looking. “All yours.” He unlocked her door and she steeled herself, taking measures breaths, and coming to terms with the fact that she was going to throw herself from a moving car moments after being flipped over one.  
Should be a great deal of fun.

_“You’re developing quite the track record jumping from, towards, and away from moving cars,”_ Q was amused. _“Something we should know about?”_

“You need new hobbies,” Bond said in agreement, slowing the car down as much as he could without giving their tail on Novak’s vehicle too much slack.

Cas snorted and tucked her gun back into her holster, grabbing the door handle. “You lot are worse than my girlfriend.”

Without giving them a moment to process what she said, Holt cracked her door open and slipped out onto the street. Bond reached over to close the door and saw her in the mirror rolling towards the curb, a little scratched up but on her feet in seconds. God, the new generation of double-o’s were crazier than hell. And he thought his own methods were mental.

-

_“James, Eve just sent me a text that says, and I quote, ‘Bond isn’t answering his phone so if you’re not dead or kidnapped tell him that he’s a right foul git and to put a bullet in Novak for me, lots of love to you both.’”_ the quartermaster chuckled, but he sounded slightly nervous and James honestly couldn’t blame him.

“Well, it’s rude to keep a lady waiting,” Bond replied, his grin almost audible through the earpiece. The sound of a new engine reached his ears outside of the confines of the car and earpiece and he saw Cas speed past him on her newly acquired mode of transport, red dress rippling in the wind, catching the glow from the streetlights and making her seem like a mirage.

It wasn’t even attraction that he felt for her, it was a near crippling amount of respect and maybe even a dash of admiration. Had he been like this once? The perfect balance of recklessness and bravery, easy confidence and hidden nerves, secrets buried meters deep and barely letting others dip below the surface? With any luck he was still all of it, save for the last bit.

The road split ahead and James found out that his assumption on the plans of the Sceptre operatives was correct when Madeleine and Holt swung left and Novak barreled on down the dark road, swerving through traffic with the grace of someone who was not unused to this brand of pursuit.

_“There’s a bridge up ahead.”_ Q said _. “I can hack Novak’s car and get him to stop before he reaches it, but I don’t know about Swann’s. Cas, do you have the situation under control?”_

No response.

_“Holt, respond.”_ there was a twinge of worry.

Bond swore. “Her earpiece must have fallen out when she jumped from the car. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

_“Not an entirely unpleasant experience,”_ Bond could tell Q’s lips were curling into that small, barely visible smile of his. Then his voice was clipped and businesslike. _“James, under no circumstances do you let him talk to you. If you give him the chance to speak he’ll just escape. Shoot him, kill him, just end this.”_

“I don’t think there’s anything he could say that would keep me from putting a bullet between his eyes.” Bond assured him, feeling every inch the killer MI6 groomed him to be. “Nothing could stop that. Not M, not God, not even the ghost of David Bowie.”

He heard Q breathe a sigh of relief. _“Get ready to stop, I’m activating his braking system in three, two, one…”_

James slammed on his brakes just as he saw the bridge arching over the Seine come into view. The concentration of traffic was light there which made it all the more relieving when the two cars spun to a halt and no damage was done save for cardiac problems induced to a small flock of birds. Their vehicles skidded onto a large easement and people scattered as quickly as the birds had. Traffic from the bridge continued since they didn’t obstruct the road, but the stream petered down to only a few cars, and then none in a matter of seconds. He took only a moment to adjust to the end of his small centrifugal trip and drew his gun from where he’d stuck it in the cupholder, darting from his vehicle to follow the black clad figure onto the bridge.

Ransom Novak jumped deftly onto the stone railing once he’d reached the centre of the bridge, hand on a lightpost to keep him from plunging forward into the waters. The only reason Bond didn’t want him to was because as uncomfortable as the cold would be, it would be the same for James who would dive in after him to make sure he never resurfaced.

“Shoot me and Dr. Arthur Descartes dies.” his voice drifted over his shoulder to wrap around Bond’s throat, catching him off guard. It was cold and crisp like the wind that whipped his trenchcoat around him making it seem as if the shadow were just waiting to collect the man back into their ranks, like he’d blow away and become one with the darkness.

Under no circumstances do you let him talk to you.

Bond cocked his gun and Novak held a phone out to his side. “If I don’t give an ‘all clear’ within the next five minutes my men have orders to fire.”

_“James, I can barely see you through your dash cam. Is he saying something? I can’t hear anything!”_

“Earpiece out.” Ransom directed. He held tight to the pole and stepped around to the other side, facing onto the bridge now. He smiled politely. “If you please.”

“How do I know the threat is real?” Bond didn’t take his gun off the man but slowly removed the earpiece and tucked it into his pocket. James wasn’t sure how he could have known about the earpiece unless it was just intuition. There was no way in hell he could have seen it. Perhaps he had his own earpiece that allowed him to hear Bond’s.

Novak hummed enigmatically. “Arthur Descartes. Changed his name just before entering university. He and your quartermaster shared a flat for many years. He had chest surgery at the age of twenty one and became a legal male shortly after. Red hair that desperately needs to be introduced to a comb. He’s working an overnight shift since some injured agents returned from an expedition in Helsinki that didn’t go too well. My bad. Right now he’s on break and walking to the nearest late closing cafe. Would he bat an eye at the new barista? The man with a newspaper? The woman waiting for a cab that won’t come. Even if I was lying I don’t think your friend Q would appreciate you taking that risk. Drop your weapon, there’s a good lad.”

The glow from the orb of the streetlight cast a skeletal looking shadow over Ransom Novak’s gaunt, but otherwise handsome face.

“I won’t let you near Q.” were the only words he could think to say.

Novak scoffed. “What is the significance of proximity? I don’t have to lay a single finger on that man, I don’t even have to be in the same hemisphere as him. By not speaking into this phone I can kill his best friend who is all the way in London. My hacker can find the safehouse his aunt, her wife, and their children have been stored away in and they’d be sweet memories in a matter of hours. I killed his father, his godfather, and five of their friends from a prison cell in Moscow. Cassandra Holt, Taron Ives, Eve Moneypenny, and Gareth Mallory turn into words on a memorial wall. His life comes undone when I pull the right thread.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” James had already lost before they stepped onto the bridge. He couldn’t let Arthur’s blood be on his hands. No, it was more than that, and certainly not as selfish. He couldn’t let Q be without him. He couldn’t kill their friend.

Ransom smiled. “I believe in controlled chaos, James Bond. No one has to die unless I have a good reason, certainly not just because I feel like it.”

“Says the terrorist.” Bond growled, muscles tensing as his mind helpfully supplied him with multiple satisfactory ways to break a man’s neck. _Give the all clear, then you’re mine._

This time he actually laughed. It was a hearty chuckle without the heart, hollow and abrasive. “I’m not a terrorist. Terrorists wish to instill and spread fear. My methods are far more precise- surgical- and mature. I suppose this is the part where I unveil my master plan, but there’s no logic to it. I don’t have the narcissism to compel me to. I just want to let you know what’s in store should you continue to pursue me.”

“In all your threats you never mentioned me,” Bond noticed, fixing his eyes on his. “Should I be flattered?”

“Blofeld has his own plans with you.” Novak replied coolly. There was a hint of bitterness, like he was disappointed in being deprived of another puppet to string up and control. “Unfortunate, seeing as how your death would be one of the most significant ones to Saoi. Had it even crossed your mind in all those years that you were ever more than his agent to him?”

Surgery. The most accurate word for it. He’d planted that thought inside James’s head with the precision of a scalpel and it began to expand like an infection, triggering a flood of confusion that must have been visible in his eyes or expression. A tic that betrayed his cluelessness. What on earth could Novak possibly mean by that? It might not mean anything and it was merely designed to throw him off in the way it did.

The devastating part was that once the confusion cleared it made a sickening amount of sense.

_‘If your crime was wanting to take control of your life, my crime is caring about yours too much.’_ Q had said not two days ago.

And his lost chance…

“Everyone wears a mask, Bond,” Novak said sagely, lips slowly working into a smile. “Life is one great masquerade ball. Saoi hid his feelings for you and a great deal more. I’m sure you don’t even know his first name. His love wears a mask as well. It hides its lack of trust in you. One of your agents wears a mask as well. But you don’t know them well enough to notice the second erroneous face.”

“You’re telling me that there’s a traitor in my midst.” Another seed planted. “Why would you offer up that information if it was true?”

“To create discord, of course.” Ransom was grinning broadly now. “A year in a Russian prison taught me two things. Russian, and patience. Send my regards to _moyo solnyshko_. I’ll see you in the new age, James Bond.” Then, with the phone to his lips, eyes never leaving Bond’s, “The good doctor lives.”

He hung up and James dove for his gun, but by the time he brought it up he barely saw Ransom Novak disappear as he jumped off the bridge. Scrambling to the barrier with the hot, heavy, molten lead feeling of dread churning in his stomach, he looked over and saw a small boat speeding away down the river and into the night. Bond fired a few futile shots but as soon as a night cruise ship passed under the bridge and into the line of fire he had to stop. It was too late, Novak was gone.

James took his earpiece out of his pocket and fixed it back into his ear, already jogging back to his car. “Sorry about that, Q. He threatened to kill Arthur, I had to go silent. The bastard got away.”

The other end was dead silent. He winced at the bad choice of adjective.

“Q?” Bond ventured again, feeling worry begin to crawl into his voice.

_Novak tells me that you were in love with me. Might still be. So I’d really appreciate an answer before my heart jumps out of my throat._

_“Holt’s tracker isn’t showing up,”_ Q’s words sounded strangled with distress. _“She wanted hers to be an implant so the only way it would stop is if someone deliberately dug it out and smashed it. She’s gone.”_

James let out a short, clipped yell, banging his hands on the steering wheel. Sirens began to sound in the distance and he could see the pulsating lights in his rearview mirror. A bystander or someone must have reported the ‘accident’. He started the engine and peeled off the sidewalk and onto one of the lanes on the bridge, heading back towards Q.

“And Arthur?” he dared ask.

_“Voicemail. I texted Eve and apparently she’s with him. They’re both going out to get coffee. He left his mobile in his office by accident. They’re having a hell of a lot of trouble at Six.”_

“It’s been a rough night for all of us,” Bond muttered grimly, feeling the familiar sting of loss when he glanced at the empty passenger seat. “I assume you’ve already reported everything to M?”

_“I can’t,”_ Q responded. His tone was edged with something that Bond couldn’t entirely place, only that it was uncomfortably close to fear. _“This rough night is about to get rougher. I’ve just been hacked.”_


	11. Of Marriages, Medication, and Moral Compasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a long chapter to make up for the hiatus. There are a lot of POV changes and new characters and I’ve made it as clear and confusing as I need it to be and things will be answered in coming chapters. 
> 
> Updated fancast for this chapter:  
> In addition to Alicia Vikander as Cassandra ‘Cas’ Holt aka 007, Matthew Goode as Remus Saoi (mentioned) and Tom Cavanaugh as Ransom Novak (mentioned) we have:
> 
> Jude Law as Harry Wistaff aka ‘Dutch’  
> Naomi Watts as Helena ‘Lena’ Wistaff, née Morrow aka ‘Dutch’
> 
> FC for unnamed male character in Vejle to be revealed later

There was nothing he could do but sit back and let the attack happen.

However, Q was not accustomed to sitting idly by, especially as some stranger hacked his laptop doing God-knows-what to his secure files and installing whatever malicious rootkit they desired. No, he was going to fight back, he was going to fight tooth and nail- rather, fingers and keys- until he found the source of the hack and obliterated them. Metaphorically, of course.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself of that.

He’d almost thought he’d gotten close to cutting off the installation when he was suddenly flooded with waves of data requests that could have only come from distributed-denial-of-service attack, meaning, in layman’s terms, his shots of winning this little tiff were well and truly buggered.

His router was hacked, he couldn’t clear past the extraneous data, the rootkit had bypassed his _self-made_ malware protection- Q would know if there was a bug in his own system, so how the hell did they use one as an exploit?

A bug could have been planted. If someone had access to his computer.

James filled him in on everything Novak had told him on the bridge. Well, _almost_ , everything. He could tell that the agent was hiding something, it had become almost a sixth sense with him over the years. Whatever it was that James didn’t want to tell him could wait for the time being. One particularly important detail that Bond did not omit was that Novak claimed to have a mole within MI6. It could just be a mind game, a way to throw a wrench into things and disrupt the function of their team, but it would explain the hack. Only two other people had access to Q’s laptop and router over the past few days. James Bond, who Q had known for four odd years, trusted with his life, and dropped his smart phone when he accidentally activated the voice assistant. And then there was Cassandra Holt who he had worked with since James disappeared, helping her train to fill the shoes of 007, who he only knew for a year and went out for tea with and yet never knew she had a girlfriend until minutes ago.

Cas Holt, who was currently missing in action. Whose earpiece had fallen out and her tracker disabled.

No! No! He couldn’t allow himself to think like that. This was exactly what Novak wanted, the mistrust, the discord, the reasonable doubt. Holt was probably kidnapped, her earpiece fell out by accident, it must have already been loose from being thrown over Swann’s car, and perhaps she was electrocuted prior to abduction. A strong enough charge would fry her tracker.

But once the seed of doubt was sown…

Shit, now he was locked out of his own system.

Before the frustration and anger that had built up within the last few minutes could make a vocal appearance, the door to his room flew open and James hurried inside, bolting it before coming to Q’s side, examining the screen as he would a fallen agent, checking for wounds.

“Any sign of Holt?” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically out of breath.

“None.” Q shook his head morosely, and then looked to the man with confusion, noting his flushed features. “Bond, did you take the stairs?”

“Bad experience with elevators recently.” James said as a way of affirmation.

“ _My_ bad experience.” Q pointed out, but he had to admit that the sentiment was rather touching. His laptop let out a chirp and drew his attention back to the screen, now black with white lines of code filling it. There was a brief spike of relief when he found that he was back in control of his computer, but it was replaced with surprise upon realizing that the rootkit installed was inert. Benign. All that effort and expertise to hack into an MI6 agent’s laptop and no damage was done.

Not that he could detect on the surface, anyway.

An idiotic teenager would do this, some foolhardy tech student who wanted an extra challenge and decided to pull off a hack just for the sake of doing it, not exactly having any malevolent or professional motivations. Q would know that because he _was_ that idiotic teenager who hacked into his father’s workplace. But that was the whole of MI6, a grand server, not some singular employee’s laptop all the way in a different country. This was _his_ laptop, _his_ router, _his_ security. This was done for a reason.

James must have taken note of his stupefied expression because he felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder. He grimaced at the flinch he couldn’t contain and forced himself to relax into the reassuring touch, hoping he wouldn’t scare Bond off just because he wasn’t used to physical contact.

“Can you find out who did this?”

Q let out a tired laugh. “You think too little of me. Of course I can, attributions are lightwork for me. It’ll be much easier if I can find their signature, compare it to the database back at Six and see if we’ve ever come across anything similar in the past.”

“Signature?” James repeated.

“Hackers tend to leave signatures, it’s a bit like our own form of advertising,” Q sent the code through another program to search it out. “A way to let other professionals know who they are what they’ve done.”

The laptop gave a small affirmative sound and presented a small fragment of code highlighted in white, the numbers black against the box.

Q breathed a light, incredulous breath. Binary numbers. That’s all it was.

“This is too simple.” he muttered, decrypting the code anyway, despite the feeling of anxiety that gnawed at his stomach. It only took a second to decode and that was when he stopped breathing.

Six letters.

_QUINCY_

Six bloody letters and he went lightheaded. Surely this was a coincidence, surely, but it was his laptop-

“Well?” James inquired, hand steady against Q’s shoulder, no doubt taking note of his less than strong state. “Do you know this bastard?”

“Oh, I know him.”

“How do we find him then?”

He could have laughed out of sheer nerves. “We already have.”

James cocked his head, brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Is it-”

“Me.” Q blurted, his head finally ending its spinning. He braced his elbows against the edge of the desk, chuckling. “Me. It’s me. I’m Quincy.”

The agent’s hand disappeared from his shoulder and Q found himself missing the comforting presence only to find it returned after a second chair was pulled up beside his own, James staring at him rather intensely.

“You didn’t go and hack your own laptop so I think it’s best that you explain.”

“It was my old signature,” Q said, looking to the screen, those crystalline eyes unsettling when they weren’t kind or jovial. “Before MI6 picked me up. My middle name is Quinn and my surname is Saoi. When you say them together it sounds like Quincy. I was barely twenty, I thought it was clever at the time, but the point is that M had my history scrubbed so my signature shouldn’t be anywhere out there, only a footnote in my file somewhere. The hack didn’t do any damage and the signature was much too easy to find so obviously someone wanted to get my attention.”

And then frighteningly on cue, an internet relay chat window came to life on his screen, a single question staring back at him.

_DUTCH: care to talk?_

“Who the hell is Dutch?” Q asked openly, then wincing inwardly at how he’d expressed his cluelessness. He wasn’t usually in the dark on things, there was always an answer he could find, but not in this moment, not with the unknown hacker requesting an audience at that very moment.

_DUTCH: time is not idle so people shouldn’t be. URGENT_

“Don’t respond.” James said.

Q responded.

_QUINCY: how did you get in?_

_DUTCH: used bug as exploit, same with 6 to get Quincy sig. f2f? gift for you_

‘6’. Likely short for MI6. He frowned.

_QUINCY: gift?_

_DUTCH: 1 shield 1 soldier. f2f?_

“Aegis is the shield of Athena,” Bond leaned forward with interest, watching the screen alongside Q. “So ‘shield’ is Aegis. The soldier- what’s Athena got to do with this?”

“Two layers to the puzzle,” Q adjusted his glasses. “The shield is Aegis but the soldier is who holds a shield. A soldier.” he gave James a meaningful look. “Or in this case, I’d guess an agent.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” James hissed, running a hand over his head, eyes on the floor. “They have Cas.”

_QUINCY: you’re with Novak?_

_DUTCH: against, more like. every operation is bound to have moles, he just doesn’t care to spot the tunnels. f2f?_

“Three times they’ve asked that. What does it mean?”

“It’s short for ‘face-to-face’,” Q explained readily. It was unnerving that the point was being pressed. He didn’t entirely believe their claim to be against Novak, and why should he? He cleared his throat. “They…well, I suppose this means they want to meet in person.”

James snorted and sat back in his seat, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

“But if we can get Cas and Aegis then I’d say it’s worth it!” Q insisted, raising his eyebrows and turning back to the screen. ‘Dutch’ was typing another message.

_DUTCH: will bring 1 friend with gifts for my safety, you can do the same_

_DUTCH: you can trust me_

_QUINCY: can I?_

_DUTCH: your father certainly did. if we don’t meet within 24 hrs your agent is good as dead and shield is out of my hands_

Q looked to James who hesitated only slightly before nodding.

“Not like I can’t handle protecting us.” he said, almost exasperated. Irritated that there were limited options.

“You trust that Holt isn’t the mole?”

“Do you?”

Q nodded. He trusted her enough despite his earlier doubts. “What about you?”

Bond was quiet for a moment. “I say that if she’s the traitor I’d like to see her on the receiving end of Dr. Descartes’s rage. And for that we’d need her back.”

“Fair enough,” Q shrugged, going back to the keyboard.

_QUINCY: where and when?_

A beat.

_DUTCH: 10 am. you should find yourself with Joe, a merry blonde fellow. until then._

The window was gone.

So was Dutch.

“Find yourself with Joe…” Q murmured to himself, squinting at the words. “Joe…merry and blonde. Merry blonde Joe.”

And then he had it.

“Merry Joseph Blondel!” Q clapped his hands together, a corner of his lips quirking up in a pleased smile. It quickly slipped away as he realized the depth of the meeting place. ‘Find yourself’, Dutch said. _The Fall of Icarus_ by Merry Joseph Blondel was a ceiling mural in the Louvre that his father had proposed to his mother under. It played a role in his own name. Icarus. Only a few people in the world knew that story.

And half of them were dead.

“‘The Fall of Icarus’ in the Louvre.” he said quickly, spitting the words of as if they were acid. The implications of this meeting wouldn’t leave him alone. Someone his father trusted, someone who knew that personal story- no file would tell them that.

“Do you think they really could have known your father?” James asked, getting up and pulling his nightclothes from the drawer. Q removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, making sure to keep his head turned to the screen to give the man some privacy.

He closed the laptop, fingertips skimming the seam between screen and keyboard. “I’m wondering if it wasn’t  _him_ that I was speaking to.”

“Was he Dutch?” Bond asked, voice now coming from the direction of the bathroom.

Q snorted. “Half Irish, actually.” He could hear the sounds of James brushing his teeth and found humour in the fact that he could engage in such a mundane task as dental hygiene. “It’s a foolish notion, I know. Wishful thinking.”

_There were no survivors. I heard them die._

_-_

_Paris, France_   
_Ten blocks away  
Fifteen minutes later_

_Safe house of Harry and Helena Wistaff_

Everything hurt. She expressed this glaringly obvious fact by allowing the pent up scream that had slowly been bubbling for hours to finally spill past her lips, accidentally alerting her husband. As much as she hated to worry him, submerging herself in denial, it was unavoidable not to address the fact that yes, she needed help. The shower stopped and she grit her teeth, clutching the arms of her reading chair as she attempted to steady her breathing.

 _Just pretend like you’re in labor,_ she told herself as white hot pain lanced up her thighs like barbed wire was wrapped tightly around them. _Except it’s your legs that feel like they’re being ripped apart and not your ‘nads._

She looked to her nightstand, a ridiculously geometric Ikea ensemble she and Harry had assembled because despite it being an extra safe house they may never use they at least needed some furniture, and assessed the space between it and her. Dragging herself to it to get her medication would be less than ideal but _dear God, if Harry doesn’t get here in the next minute-_

“Lena?” her husband was hastily dressed in his sleepwear, sandy colored hair still wet from the shower. The spots of shampoo suds was almost enough to make her laugh. Almost.

Her copy of _Born on a Blue Day_ by Daniel Tammet slid from its place on her knee and landed softly on her foot, but it was enough to send a buzzing sensation up her leg. It wouldn’t be a surprise if her blood cells were replaced by individual honeybees the way it stung.

Helena’s poorly stifled sob of pain prevented her from biting clean through her lip.

“Oh, Christ, Lene,” his eyes widened and he rushed over to her, prying her hands from the chair and looping his under her arms. “How bad is it?”

“We’re going to need the morphine,” she hissed as pressure was put on her legs when he hoisted her to her feet. “You’re going to have to carry me to the bed, I’m not making it like this.”

“Sounds like something you say on a bad honeymoon,” Harry tried for a joke.

“Or a good one,” Lena managed a strained laugh. “I _wish_ I was pissed right now. Might make this hurt less.”

“Well you’re not getting alcohol _and_ morphine, love,” he said, trying his utmost to gently lift her into his arms, not wanting to jostle her injured legs too greatly. If she had any complaints she didn’t express them, but he’d have been glad if she told him he did something wrong just so he’d be able to make sure to get it right next time. He always felt as if he was flying blind whenever she was like this because he just wanted to get everything right but rarely knew if he was.

“How disappointing,” she laughed again and it turned into a grimace when she was set down atop the turned down covers.

Harry smiled and shook his head, amazed that she still had a sense of humor when her legs were no doubt killing her, and it wasn’t even close to an exaggeration. “You’re sure about the morphine? The doctor said it was only if it was _really_ bad-”

She interrupted him by putting a good portion of her sweater sleeve into her mouth to muffle another scream, her face contorted in a picture of sheer agony.

“Okay, this qualifies as really bad.” and Harry wordlessly prepared the morphine, administering it the way he’d been instructed by their MI6 approved doctor. He wondered, with amusement, if there were MI6 approved handymen. Or perhaps all agents were skilled do-it-yourself-ers.

The bedroom door opened and a young woman with newly dried hair and a spare pair of Helena’s sleepwear entered without knocking, looking both confused and concerned at the same time.

“I heard screaming-?” she saw Lena on the bed and Harry putting the needle kit away, confusion falling away, concern taking over. “Are you all right?”

Lena turned her head on the pillows to smile at her weakly, sluggish as the drug began to take effect. “I’m fi-”

“No.” Harry said honestly, squeezing Lena’s hand comfortingly from where he sat on the bed beside her. “But she will be. Thank you for the concern, Miss Holt.”

“Cas, please.” she claimed Lena’s vacant seat in the reading chair and criss-crossed her legs, hands on her knees. “You get me out of a bind like that? We might as well be on a first name basis, Wistaff.”

“Wistaff is a surname,” Lena slurred, feeling her eyelids droop from exhaustion and the bliss that was coating her damaged nerves. It wouldn’t fix anything, nothing so far had fixed it, but at least it stopped her from feeling the pain.

Harry held his hand up in mock surrender when Cas looked offended, tilting her head and squinting one accusing eye at him. “Excuse me for not trusting the stranger we rescued from Ransom bloody Novak’s hands. No offense to you, Mi- _Cas_ , but you weren’t part of our plan. We get Aegis to Saoi, pass the intel, and it’s back to the sidelines. Nothing about hostage transfers.”

“You don’t have to trust me,” Cas stood up and folded her arms, staring at him. “Just like I don’t have to trust you. You told Q you’d bring me to him and Bond, and if I decide to high-tail it out of here and you two show up without me you’re going to look like liars. I don’t know your motives, you only told me you were friends of Q, but I’m believing that less and less by the second.”

Harry was miffed. “I apologize if breaking you out of a storage room and nearly blowing my cover wasn’t enough to convince you of which direction our moral compass points. Novak thinks Lena is cracking Aegis right now and using a line of communication to portray you as a hostage.”

”Excuse me?” Cas’ back went ramrod straight, muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight. 

“I told Blofeld that Dutch needed the agent to provide an incentive to Saoi to back off.” Lena said. “That we’d gotten far enough into cracking the lock but we needed DNA confirmation from an MI6 double-oh to move on to the next stage.”

”Blofeld bought that?”

”I sold that.” Lena replied swiftly. “He’s smart enough to know when there are people better than him but stupid enough to be duped by them. He doesn’t trust Novak and his ego prevents him from fully cooperating so all of this is under Ransom’s radar for now. It’s bought us a window to meet with your friends and flee the country with them. Our solo escapade is coming to a close.”

Lena held her hand out to Cas, surprised she even had the energy left to do so. Wordlessly, Cas took it, holding her hand softly.

“Do you trust me?” She asked cautiously.

There was a slight hesitation before Cas nodded.

“And you’re not sure why.”

Another nod.

Lena seemed satisfied with this response. “Your friend’s father said I had that gift. His name was Remus. He was sweet, always kind, always accidentally the smartest man in the room. I loved him but his heart was somewhere else. Perhaps you’re familiar with the feeling, perhaps not. But I hope you can understand why I feel inclined to help his son. It’s a self assigned debt. I didn’t get to choose my retirement,” she gestured weakly to her legs. “So this is how I work. Undercover, out of sight, taking down the man who took my friends and my life. You trust me, you trust Harry. Harry trusts me so he’ll trust you. I’m difficult that way, but that’s marriage for you, sweetheart.”

Harry expected Lena to say something more but she was silent. Her hand slipped from Cas’ and he discovered that she was asleep. With a small smile he pressed a light kiss to her forehead and folded her hand across her stomach, pulling the blankets over her torso and adjusting her head on the pillows until she seemed comfortable enough.

“It’s not odd for you?” Cas broke the silence, sitting back down, eyes on Harry who sat at the end of the bed, absently smoothing the blankets around his wife’s feet. “Hearing her talk about Remus Saoi like that? The fact that you’re risking life and limb to help the son of someone she loved over a decade ago?”

He smiled softly, almost chuckling. “If you’re jealous of a dead man then there’s something seriously wrong with your headspace. No, I’m happy to be a part of Lena’s adventures. I’m doing something good in my life. Making an actual difference. When I met her I had just resigned from Scotland Yard because it didn’t seem like enough. Now I’m traipsing the globe with an ex-MI6 agent who I love dearly, taking out the most rubbish sort of people imaginable. This…this gives her peace. Knowing she’s doing the right thing. She could just sit in a wheelchair all day and mourn but instead she trains with me every day to get some strength back so she can use crutches, so she can walk back into MI6 one day and know that she’s choosing for it to be the last time. That the job would be done. If I can help her get her peace then that’s all I need.”

“You trust her a great deal.” Cas marveled.

Harry nodded. “I trust her and she trusts me. And I don’t even know her real name.”

Cas blinked. “It’s not Helena? Lena?”

“No.” he shook his head. “It isn’t.”

“And what about you?” Cas didn’t seem suspicious or untrusting, but curious. It was refreshing. “Harry Wistaff?”

“It’s as real as I need it to be.”

-

 _Vejle, Denmark_  
_House on the Vejle Fjord  
Same time_

He was having a nightmare again.

Not the benign kind that seemed real at the time, absurd when you’ve woken up, and is forgotten about by the time your morning tea has steeped.

This was the kind that he could see if he searched back enough in his memories to something he had locked away.

But it kept on escaping and coming after him.

He was falling.

A plane was crashing.

_His wife was torn soundlessly from the cabin as the tail disconnected from the explosion. He could feel the heat lick the back of his neck, the swipe of her hand past his as he failed to pull her back in and she was lost to the sky and land._

_He screamed, but it was muted. He couldn’t scream loud enough in the dream, it wasn’t loud enough for his ears, not loud enough to express the pain. So he screamed more and more and more and more-_

_And there was his son, slumped over in the seat across the aisle, a bloody gash across his forehead, glasses spotted with blood, dark hair plastered to it, and then the windows imploded, hands and arms reaching in and grabbing for the boy, the boy with the wavy brown hair,_ his _boy-_

 _The man was bleeding too. When he tried to stand to get to the boy he found a metal rod protruding from his chest, pinning him to his seat. With delayed shock he pulled at the metal, trying to pull it from his chest as blood just_ poured-

_And then the plane was closed. No gaping holes or broken windows, no metal projectile in his chest. He surged forward but his legs refused to work and he crashed to the floor, rough turpentine carpet scratching his face. The boy lay just across from him, still and unmoving._

_Blood rose around them like a filling pool, soaking into their clothes, matting their hair, and he reached for the boy, screaming for him to wake up, wake up before they drowned, he called his name- what_ was _his name?_

He woke up with a sharp cry, chest heaving as he coughed and gasped, trying to expel the blood that had drowned him, trying to breathe.

_One, two, three, four, five._

_It was just another dream._

_Six, seven, eight, nine, ten._

_You’re awake._

“I’m awake.” he croaked to the darkness of his bedroom. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and he tore it off, balling it up and throwing it into the closet before climbing out of bed to open the window. It felt suffocatingly hot in the room, hot like the burning plane…

It was cool outside. Cold. Autumnal. He stood at the windowsill for a moment, drawing in gulping breaths of the fresh air, scourging his lungs, filling his senses with the smell of the trees in the yard, the water from the fjord, the cinnamon candle that flickered on the desk and was put out as a breeze swept through the room.

_One, two, three, four, five. I’m alive._

“I’m alive.” he told the moon. The crescent smiled at him reassuringly.

Someone had left a few bottles of water under his nightstand before they left the house in lieu of the glasses of water he’d find with his medication. Paris or something, he didn’t know what it was this time around. It gave him peace, but the solitude wasn’t always welcome. He was used to his unconventional family before it was taken from him.

Drinking half a bottle of water he fished a sleeping pill from its bottle and set the SSRIs aside for the morning. PTSD, depression, they had something for everything didn’t they?

He put a hand to his chest and found the smattering of scars from years past but no wound from the dream. Nothing from being impaled by a piece of steel. There was always something like that, something that kept him from getting to the boy. He could never save his son.

It was confusing. He didn’t have a son. Yet somehow he was in the dreams and he just knew that’s what he was to him. That’s how he felt.

His wife, however-

He held his hand out into a ray of moonlight and found his wedding band still there.

What he’d give to see her face again…to hold her, to apologize, to say something stupid and have her laugh and call him her handsome idiot.

But she was gone. His wife and the son he never had.

-

_Paris, France_   
_Q and Bond’s hotel room  
1 hour later_

Q was sleeping soundly, his shoulder rising and falling as he lay on his side, each breath exhaled into the side of a pillow, hair falling across his forehead.

James couldn’t sleep. As soon as he knew Q had clocked out he gave him a few minutes before turning on his own bedside lamp and just sat there on his bed, back against the headboard, lost in thought.

Anyone. He could have anyone who would have him. He was handsome, intelligent, witty, punctual, kind, and yet it was James that caught his eye. He’d had ample time to think about Novak’s words and couldn’t find a lie in them. The truth was enough like reality to fit. Perhaps it was the truth James wanted to have. An answer to his question.

But the answer merely provoked another question.

Why _him_?

Why the man who’s killed more people than the years of his life, who can count on two hands the names of people he remembers sleeping with when it’s been far more than that?

He was a killer, he was dishonest, he couldn’t make a date to save his life even if that really was the case.

The thing with love is that the person made you want to be better than you were. He wanted to be better for Q, of course, but did that have anything to do with it? It didn’t matter, he’d never be good enough to deserve him. What he felt about Q was complicated. It wasn’t physical, it wasn’t burning, it was quiet and light and warm in his chest, it was unfamiliar, but it was there.

The quartermaster mumbled something that sounded like “teacup” and rolled onto his other side, sighing contentedly.

James couldn’t resist smiling.

He shut off his light and settled into his own bed, hoping Q’s dreams were better than his own.


	12. Romulus et Remus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! I've been meaning to get working on this for a while and finally I just had to kick myself and do it. This chapter is a lot of crucial backstory from Remus Saoi's point of view with a few notable mentions to older and newer faces. The title of this chapter is "Romulus and Remus", I just wanted it to be in the original Latin, hence "et". 
> 
> Side note: if you're like me and usually have music on whilst reading I would recommend Beautiful Crime by Tamer for this chapter in particular.

May, 1996

This pub was a favorite of theirs. For some blessed reason the management refused to play anything other than swing music and jazz. Ed had played the saxophone since his school days and found himself joining a jazz ensemble that performed live every month there. It became their unofficial ‘place’, like the grown-up version of a treehouse. Instead of squash and stuffed bears it was liquor and strangers too involved in their own things to pay any mind to the two MI6 agents and their conversations. A little escape from espionage and bureaucracy.

“You know why we can’t have kids?” Ed set his pint down, brushing the edges of his mouth with his thumb to get the traces of foam off. Only a few sips into his drink and the floodgates of truth had opened. Remus always liked that about Edgar. He was always honest, but never brutally so. It was refreshing when someone spoke their mind in a world where people typically opted to do the exact opposite.

“Because neither evolution nor God granted us the anatomy for it.” Remus grinned at him over his own drink, taking a swig as his friend chuckled from the stool next to him. “Can’t say I’d fancy it to be honest.”

Ed swatted him lightly on the head and Remus laughed, almost snorting into his glass. “Hey, I’m meant to be the comedian!”

“And I’m laughing!” Remus pointed out.

“And _I’m_ serious.” Ed traced his finger along the designs of his glass, looking uncharacteristically morose. “It’s not Tori, it’s me. Got tested and everything. She’s perfectly fine, and I’m- hell with it, I don’t know. There’s alternative methods, I know, but she doesn’t want them. Adoption, fertilization, surrogacy, none of it. It’s my fault we can’t have a family.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Remus ran his hand down his back then brought it to rest on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Ed took a drink and laughed darkly, nodding. “But it feels like it, you know? It’s easy to blame yourself instead of the genes or whatever it is. Even if we could, it’s work. We’re both travelling, I’m getting shot at, she’s digging up lost cultures, our life wouldn’t work with a child in it.”

Remus moved his glass aside so he could rest his arms on the bar, head turned to face him. “You wake up to turn your alarm clock off, what’s the first thing you see?”

A smile crept across Ed’s face. “Russ’s crayon drawing of a koala.”

Remus smiled, letting out a light laugh, poking the tabletop with his finger. “Exactly. We were over for dinner, talking about his animal project for school, and you said off handedly that you’d never seen a koala in person and that you bet they were softer and cuter than a cloud. The next day Russ dragged me to the library to get a picture book of animals so he could have a reference to draw the perfect damn koala for his Uncle Ed. You tell me again that your life doesn’t work with a child in it because you’ve got one. And if anything happens to me with this Novak business or any other kind of thing-” he stopped himself and sighed, forcing back the smile that had slipped away. “You have a family. It’s unconventional, it’s not blood, but it is what it is and I just want you to know that because you have quite the talent for beating yourself up.”

And then before he knew it, Ed was hugging him fiercely, almost tackling him off the barstool. The woman sitting beside Remus looked miffed at almost being pushed off as well and went back to her martini with a light scoff. People would be people.

“Remus Saoi, I could bloody well kiss you.” he grinned, sitting back and looking significantly brighter.

“I should hope you wouldn’t, lest Tori get the wrong impression.” Remus cocked his head, smiling jokingly. “But it’s hard to resist, I’m sure. Maeve used to tell me I was quite the looker.”

Ed patted his shoulder before jumping off his seat. “Well keep looking, matey, because I don’t see it. Be right back, I need the loo.”

“Oh, yes, slag off your friend and leave your drink unguarded! Wise, Marks! Don’t think I was lying about those nanobots!”

“Oi, barkeep, watch after that!” Ed laughed and disappeared.

Remus chuckled and turned back to his own drink, nursing it for a few seconds before the phone behind the bar rang and the bartender picked it up, reaching over to turn down the music. Words were exchanged and he covered the receiver with one hand, calling out loudly: “I’m looking for an Ed Marks or Remus Saoi! Urgent call!”

People began to murmur and Remus’s heart leapt, thrumming anxiously. He raised his hand a bit. “I’m Saoi.”

The cord was able to reach him and he took the phone with unsteady hands. _Don’t let it be Russ. He was safe with Siobhan. Don’t let it be them._ “Hello, this is Remus speaking.”

_“Remus! It’s Tori! Thank God, I was worried you two might’ve left  the pub already. I tried Six but they said you two hadn’t returned from break yet. Is Ed there?”_

“He’s in the restroom, should be back any moment.” Remus looked behind him and saw a queue. Could be more than a moment. “You said this was urgent?”

 _“A man came to the door looking for Ed, I said he wasn’t in and asked if he’d like to leave a message.”_ Tori explained. Remus heard the sound of things being moved around and recalled that she was due to leave for South America the next day to assist in the identification of bodies found in unmarked graves that could be more victims of Argentina’s _Guerra Sucia._ The Dirty War. She was no doubt packing as they spoke. _“He wouldn’t say who he was, just that he knew both of you from work. He gave me a flower, said it was the message and for Ed to meet him at York Bridge in Regents Park as soon as possible.”_

His soda felt like liquid cement in his stomach and he almost reached for Ed’s lager. “Tori, this is incredibly important. What kind of flower did he leave?”

_“It was a- oh, what do you call those? Priesthoods? Er, no. Monkshood! A single monkshood.”_

Monkshood.

Flowers had their own symbolic language, meanings for them. Roses for romance, carnations for mothers. He’d learned that from his botanist father.

Monkshood for enemies.

‘A foe is near.’

It had to be Novak. Marks was the lead agent on his case and had chased the man over seven countries and two continents, catching only body counts, grasping at smoke. A few months ago he almost had him cornered just outside of Macau and took a shot. The world would have been rid of Ransom Novak if the coward hadn’t pulled one of his own men in front of him to take the bullet. Ed shot again and grazed his shoulder before being knocked down by a cyclist.

He’d made a ghost bleed.

And now it had come to his front doorstep.

“Victoria, I need you to stay calm and don’t leave the house.” Remus said urgently, drawing the receiver close to his lips, now eyeing the clientele with a newfound suspicion. Could any one of them be Novak’s? Watching their every move? He never allowed himself to get paranoid, it only gave the enemy what they wanted, but now- well, now, perhaps a little paranoia would do some good.  “Ed will be over shortly, just stay put, he’ll explain everything. Only answer the phone if it rings once, we hang up, and then call again.”

_“Okay, but I don’t understand-”_

“Just trust me, please. Stay safe, Tor.” he passed it back to the bartender and who hung it up on the base just as Ed got back to his seat.

“I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

“More than you know,” Remus pulled some bills from his wallet and slid them across the counter, grabbing Ed’s arm and pulling him towards the door and out into the gray afternoon. The air was slightly humid but cooling down and the sidewalks were still damp from the morning rain.

“Novak went to your house, he spoke to Tori, you need to get both of you to a safe house as soon as possible.”

Ed visibly blanched, his freckles standing out in stark contrast to his now alabaster skin. “You’ve got to be joking.”

They suspected this day would come eventually. Never knew, never saw it treading in the horizon, just kept a weather eye out in case it ever did come knocking.

“I wish I was.” Remus hailed a taxi and it sidled up to the curb before them, splashing a bit of rainwater onto their shoes. He’d have to find a phone, call his sister at his place and tell her to find his gun, stay the night, keep watch until he got there.

Siobhan would hunt quail and pheasants with their father when they went back to the family home in Ireland as teenagers. Remus never had the stomach for pulling the trigger. He didn’t want to put his sister in this position but if she could hunt birds for sport perhaps she could take this vulture out to protect her brother’s son. And so many others. Perhaps he could do it as well.

Perhaps he could go to Regents Park and end this all on the footbridge.

No. Absolutely not! He wasn’t a fighter like that. It was stupid, selfish thinking. He’d get himself killed for nothing. This wasn’t on the other side of a screen. This was real. This was blood and bullets and flowers.

Edgar held onto both of his forearms, staring at him intently with his pale, erudite eyes. “I can hear you thinking, Saoi.” He tapped the frame of Remus’s glasses, looking concerned, verging on panic. “What else did Novak say?”

“He-” Remus looked to the taxi driver and held up his index finger. One minute. A nod. Remus sighed and withdrew his arms. “He wanted you to meet with him. It’s a trap, a threat. We could be being watched so have the driver drop you a block after your house. I’ll catch another cab once you’ve left and we should be fine.”

Marks’ expression was grim. “Stay safe. Call me when you get home.”

“You too. And I will.”

He got into the cab and it peeled away into the street, just as a dark car came up to replace it. The passenger side window rolled down and a woman leaned over to smile at him.

“I think you need a ride, yes?” he couldn’t place her accent.

“Actually, I’m just hoping for a cab, thanks,” Remus smiled awkwardly and began to edge away when he heard a familiar clicking sound. He looked back towards the sleek vehicle and the black clad occupant, her perfectly manicured nails scratching the sides of the gun she held. Aimed at him.

She jerked her head. “Get in the car. He wanted the ginger, Edgar Marks, but I suppose his dark haired friend will have to do.”

“Shooting me is a bit counterproductive isn’t it?” Remus didn’t move an inch, fixated on the weapon in front of him. The sidewalk wasn’t busy but if she opened fire who was to say that a bullet wouldn’t go through a window? One thing he learned from Edgar was that it was better for targets to stay in one place. It was different _being_ the target though.

The woman examined her gun, smiling. “You focus on the threat you can see. You fail to notice the one behind you.”

Before the realization could even fully register, he felt the blunt strike to the back of the head and a sudden onslaught of darkness.

-

Remus woke up in the backseat of the car with a terrible, roaring headache. He’d always joked that the double-oh’s had thick skulls and now he knew why they needed them. God, getting hit really _hurt._

The interior of the vehicle slowly came into focus and a low groan worked its way from his throat as he rolled into his side, his legs slightly cramped from being bent due to his height and the limited space.

Everything slowly returned to him, the woman, the pub, the second person who struck him. He’d been kidnapped by Ransom Novak’s people.

It could’ve been Ed in his place.

He was glad it wasn’t.

Christ, of all the days to be kidnapped. Russ was meant to be attending a weekend science fair at school and Remus was going to help him with setting up a nice ring for his toothbrush robots to run amok in.

Assuming, of course, that he would even make it to that point of time.

He and Edgar must have been tailed from the River House, or perhaps Tori’s call was tapped into and Novak’s people moved in quickly. Someone watching in the pub, a passerby on the tube, anything was possible with this shadow of a man.

 _I don’t want to die today,_ he thought, feeling panicked as the surroundings began to feel more tangible. Had he been drugged? No, he was struck from behind-

“Saoi’s awake.” a male voice spoke from the passenger seat. That was the first moment he was aware of the two sets of eyes keenly observing him from the front of the vehicle.

“Let’s get him to the boss then,” the woman opened her door and the man did likewise, sunlight streaming into the darkened space.

Remus pushed himself into a sitting position, fumbling for the lock on his door only for it to open from the outside. He was seized under the arms and dragged out of the car onto rough pavement, a short walkway leading to a wooden footbridge just off the road. Grunts of protest ensued and his ankles kept on getting caught on each other as he struggled to his feet, shoes scuffing tarmac and nails digging deeper into his biceps.

A canopy of trees stooped over it, branches swaying idly in the breeze, and Remus let himself be led to the path with silent shock as he came closer to the dark clothed figure standing on the centre of the bridge. He could feel his heartbeat steadily increasing and forced himself to breathe. Each step forward was traitorous but necessary.

“Leave us.” the figure said without turning around.

The man and woman released Remus’s arms and withdrew. He heard the car doors shut and the vehicle drive away.

Neither men moved for what felt like eons. The earth could have torn itself in half and Remus knew that he wouldn’t take another step closer if he didn’t have to. Caution outweighed curiosity. Novak was radon, he was uranium, he was a live wire saturated with the promise of pain.

Two meters. Two meters between him and one of the darkest criminals of their time.

The man turned around to face him, stepping a few feet closer. His black coat hung from his lithe and built frame. Thin, but not skeletal. His face was clean shaved and cheekbones jutted out sharply, accentuating his narrow features. Inky hair combed neatly back.

Haunting. That was the word to describe the man. The way his coat fluttered about him in the wind, how he seemed to occupy ten times the space he stood in. His eyes, brown and colder than the soil at the bottom of a freshly dug grave.

This was, without a doubt, truly Ransom Novak.

The quartermaster spent years following his activities around the globe, tracking assets and numbers over various screens, agent after agent venturing after him and returning in pieces, sometimes literally. Or not at all. Novak’s predecessor’s movements had ultimately cost America a president. The successor had more than capably filled the shoes that had been stepped out of. Blackouts, civil wars, theft, illegal weapons trade, torture, murder, abductions, all stepping stones to reach a goal that should not be obtainable by any man.

Never at any point had he seemed to be more than a man. Man was dangerous in itself, there was no need for spectral embellishments. He wasn’t the devil. He was a ghost in metaphor, a shadow in movement. But standing before him in a body not unlike his own, Saoi wasn’t underwhelmed in the slightest. If anything, he thought the villain would be shorter.

“So this is the famed Quartermaster.” Novak drawled, his eyes trailing over Remus. His voice wasn’t sharp or biting, rather warm and oddly charismatic. Not like honey, but the amber that encased insects and sealed them in translucent graves. “You're much more handsome than I thought you'd be. Stronger looking. Still have the specs, though."

“Pardon?” Remus asked, feigning politeness and folding his arms behind his back.

Novak reached out and adjusted Remus’s spectacles, the quartermaster fighting the crawling sensation that spread across his face like hives at the proximity.

“I imagined you with glasses.” Novak let his hand drop to his side, a smirk blooming to life. “I always wanted a face to put to the name, meet Edgar Marks’ quartermaster. The puppeteer behind the agent.”

“Marks is no puppet.” Remus replied coolly.

“But you are.” Novak tilted his head once again. “This was never about Marks. As pained as I am to admit it, you’re as much of a ghost to me as I am to you. By contacting the lovely Victoria I flushed both of you out. I went through all this trouble to find you. Much less trouble than you put me through, though. You and your computers. You're making it very hard for me to stay in business.”

“Business?” Remus barked out a laugh, taken aback by the unusual hollowness of the sound. “Killing and torturing innocent people? The prototype for Aegis? You call that business?!”

“You created that prototype, dear Remus.”

“I did. In my duty to my country.” Remus spat. “I never should have let M talk me into it. If she had known that men like you would steal it-”

“I don’t have it.” Novak shook his head. “Your agents recovered it weeks ago at the expense of several of my men.”

“As if you care about their lives.”

Novak examined his fingernails. “I care about the impracticality of death without purpose. And I can tell right now that Mother M hasn’t informed you on the return of your program.”

Remus scoffed. “Because she knows I’ll destroy it the moment I get my hands on it. If this is an attempt to make me into a turncoat you’ve got another thing coming, Novak. I know where my loyalties are.”

“You think you’re noble because you’re on the side of the righteous, do you?” Novak advanced until there were inches separating their faces and he was forced to look even closer into those dark eyes. “You’re all sinners in the robes of saints.”

“Don’t tell me this is about religion.”

“Why? Are you a man of faith?”

“No, because then it just makes you boring.” Remus said with a burst of courage, staring adamantly back at Novak, jaw clenched. Perhaps he could rile him a bit, get him to lose control so he would be able to take advantage of the situation. “God said do this and that, you have no mind of your own, you’re just as much a puppet as you think I am.”

Novak smiled. “You won’t get me to crack, Saoi. I’m serene.”

 _I will._ “You’re no zealot. You’re an orchestrator or chaos to reach an endgame that will change the world to your image.”

“And you’re damage control, yes?” Novak appeared vaguely amused. “You flatter yourself. I can see the man you are, and it’s no hero. You think yourself to be the protector of your family, of Marks, of your team, but a day will come when there is only so much you can do. Sometimes you can’t understand your own mind and it terrifies you. You don’t know what it means to bleed for victory because you’re always on friendly ground. No matter how many people are in a room you’ll always feel alone without family. So I’ll take it from you. I’ll take your mind. I’ll take your security. You all imagine yourselves to be angels but the only halo you’ll get is the blood around Edgar and Victoria Marks’ heads when I-”

Remus lunged.

He didn’t recall thinking to move or feeling his legs push off the ground but within seconds he knocked Novak down, scrambling on top of him in his blind rage and finding the first human point of weakness he could. His hands closed around his throat. And they tightened.

Remus could feel the blood rushing past his ears like floodwaters, eyes burning as he refused to look away from the gleeful expression that stared up at him. It was sheer panic and anger propelling him, desperation even, and it seemed that Novak was slowly realizing this, the smile slipping away like oil. Did he think Remus would let off? After threatening to kill his family? Unlikely.

Novak began to thrash and kick. Remus pressed down harder, refusing to lessen the pressure around the man’s throat, his hands a vice clamped firm. Talons clawed at him. Fangs bared. Ransom ceased to be human. He was feral.

It was only when his eyes began to droop that Remus saw the change in them. There was something he didn’t see before. Something vital, something Novak once thought to have complete control over. Fear.

In that moment, Ransom Novak was afraid of Remus Saoi.

There was something about the shock of the revelation, the disgust at himself, that caused him to release Novak, scrambling away to the other end of the bridge, but those eyes had already closed. The dark form lay crumpled like a pile of drapes, unmoving. Not breathing.

Remus felt bile rise in his throat and he made a choked sound. _Did he just kill someone? Did he just kill Novak?_

He tentatively moved back to the man, observing the slackened features of his face for any sign of life. The ring of red where Remus’s hands had been was a stark contrast to his paleness, but it was there that he found a steady pulse. Unconscious, was all.

Dizzy with relief, he staggered to his feet once again, breathing raggedly as he stood over Novak, feeling as much of monster as the one he tried to take down. This was what Novak wanted. To corrupt. He wanted Remus to break. It worked, if only for a moment.

He almost killed a man. An evil one, but a person nonetheless. This was unlike anything MI6 could have prepared him for. It was different. Visceral. Of course the propensity to justify killing was needed for the position, but he wasn’t like the field agents. He’d killed, but he’d never seen their faces. It was never by his own hand. Missiles, reinforcements with the order to shoot, yes. Supplying the means, yes. Remus was no stranger to death. But this, this variety of it- it terrified him. It wasn’t who he was. For his young child, his own sister, Edgar, Tori, he would do anything.

But he _could not_ become a killer.

He knew, looking at Novak, that the act would forever change him. He didn’t have the bravery of Marks, of the double-oh’s, their ability to compartmentalize and move forward from it. He wouldn’t be the same person after it. His integrity would be sullied, defiled.

For his son, he would not become a killer. Remus would not be able to live with being unable to look him in the eyes.

He hoped he would be forgiven for this one day.

The quartermaster turned and fled, sprinting through the park, staying to the paths until he reached a road. Attempting to not feel like a coward, he boarded the first bus he saw, taking it as near to his home as he dared.

Novak would wake up eventually and know. Know that Remus Saoi nearly killed him. He had precious little time left before he would have to flee once again, and permanently. MI6 would have to hide him and Russ. Siobhan if they could. If she would even tolerate protective custody. They had to be safe at all costs.

There was a massive target on his back now, and in his blindness, his impulsivity, he put it there. Remus signed his death warrant on York Bridge.  

No, Novak would come after him even if that didn’t happen. He only gave him a better reason to do so.

If he couldn’t live, Edgar Marks had to. He was Russ’s godfather. His guardian if things went horribly wrong. If Novak pursued Remus, he would know what needed to happen. A child could only lose so many parents. Tori could live without a friend. It was her husband she needed. And he cared, god, he cared. He was nearly his brother, after all. Everything they’d been through.

As the bus ambled over Vauxhall, Remus knew.

Edgar Marks had to live.

-

_November, 2004. Eight and a half years later._

 

Remus was dead. Rather, he was as good as.

Waking felt like dragging himself through a valley of broken glass, but he forced himself to. He forced his heart to keep beating- or had it stopped and restarted?- and forced his eyes to open and face the destruction around him.

Then he remembered. He was the one who landed the plane. Tried to, at least.

There was a clearing off to the right; he could barely see it through the remnants of the window. Remus vaguely recalled aiming for it, attempting to keep the plane level, but the engines and wings were too damaged to cooperate. They landed hard. Skidding, rolling, screaming, barreling across the ground toward the tree line. Remus’s head struck the controls and he blacked out, thrown clear of the co-pilot seat.

They hit the trees. Wood splinters and pine needles strewn around the imploded windshield were proof of that.

The cockpit was destroyed. Sparks were leaping from the control panel, the metal warped and bent in absurd ways, jagged edges with tinges of red at the end. Michael Lowden was fastened in his seat, his forehead bruised, throat red with blood, shining with glass. Dead.

Remus tried to roll over and screamed as indescribable pain lanced through his chest. He reached out with a shaking hand and took hold of the arm rest of the co-pilot’s seat, pulling himself up into a sitting position, gritting his teeth, tasting blood as he accidentally pierced his tongue. No, there was blood before. Blood in his throat.

He forced himself to look down and nearly passed out.

The glass from the windshield had relocated to his chest, shards as wide as his palm embedded in him, painted over with red, looking more like pieces of a mosaic than those of a wrecked aircraft.

Looking at all his injuries that didn’t seem to end brought attention to the throbbing in his skull and the ring of blood crusted around his right eye. The blood on his cheek still felt thick and he tentatively felt around for the gash on his temple, hissing in pain when he found it.

A feeble cough sounded from the cabin, followed by a cry of pain.

Akari. Alene. Ed.

“God, we haven’t spoken in a while but please let me do this, I’m begging you.” Remus hissed the prayer, his breathing shallow and ragged as he clasped a particularly large shard of glass. Breathe in, breathe out. One, two, three-

His vision went black. His ears rang, piercing through his cries of pain as the glass fell to the ground and he reached for another, no hesitation. A third. Fourth. He ignored the warmth of his own blood on his hands and removed as many pieces as he dared.

“Now,” he instructed himself silently. “move.”

Standing hurt like hell but he did it in one straight movement, keeping his posture just so, avoiding agitating the steadily bleeding wounds on his chest. His head spun and he could hardly walk straight but he moved, stumbling into the cabin.

He blinked the persistent darkness from his eyes, focusing on Alene Holland, the first person he saw. Her fingers fumbled for the clasp of her seatbelt. His throat couldn’t form the words for him to call out to her so he stretched his arm out, reaching, close-

“Maeve,” Remus’s voice was hoarse. As soon as the name reached his ears he realized his error. No. Not Maeve. Lena. Alene.

He gathered his strength and forced the correct name out. “Lena.”

She finally noticed him and her head slumped back against the seat, a sigh of relief floating into the air.

“Remus,” Alene breathed, barely above a whisper. Her eyes opened slowly, revealing the tears that accumulated within them. “You’re alive.”

“So are you.” Remus smoothed her hair back and kissed her forehead lightly, taking her hands in his own and placing them over a cut on her side. “I’m going to get you out of here, Lena. Just hold on.”

He reached for the clasp and discovered that it was jammed. It took a few more tries but he was able to get it open, casting the belt aside.

“You know,” Alene said quietly, a fragile smile on her face. “You’re the only person in the world who calls me Lena.”

Remus chuckled, moving the table away from her legs. He winced, a stab of pain running through him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.”

Once the table was gone, Alene’s injuries were revealed. She had cuts on her upper body and face, but her legs…they were peppered with shrapnel. Splinters and metal fragments embedded in her flesh. He tapped the tendon beneath her knee and the leg barely twitched.

Remus swallowed hard. “Sweetheart, can you move your legs?”

There was a moment. A moment where Alene looked and saw. When her face contorted and tears fell and he knew the answer. She couldn’t.

“I can’t- Remus, my legs, I can’t-“ her eyes were wide, breathing panicked, her hands grabbing at his arms.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Remus tried to soothe her, carefully lifting her from the seat, cradling her against his chest. She was light, but heavy enough to cause him to groan with the effort. Her hair tickled his jaw. “Focus on me. Eyes on me, love. We’re getting you out.”

He left Alene lying in the grass of the field, wrapping her legs with her spare coat from her suitcase, before rushing back into the wreckage, the only half of the plane remaining.

Akari Hayashi was awake. But that wasn’t a good thing for her. Something had ripped across her abdomen when the explosion occurred. When Ed belted her into a seat, the material acted as a tourniquet, but as soon as he got her out it began to bleed freely. Her cries echoed around the shell of the plane cabin. Remus wrapped the wound with her scarf and eased her onto a fire blanket, dragging her out to Alene.

He ran back for Edgar.

The problem was that he wasn’t able to find him at first. Ed was crumpled in a corner, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, body wearing a collage of bruises, evidence that he had been thrown around brutally when they landed. He secured Akari just in time, but it was too late for him to buckle down. There was a deep gash on his hairline, the wound that likely left him blissfully unconscious, free of the pain until now. .

Remus pressed gently on his ribcage, testing, and Ed’s eyes flew open. They always varied between blue and green. Today they were pale. Pale and tight with pain.

“You’re alive.” Ed’s laugh turned to a grimace. Broken ribs, Remus concluded. Too many.

“So I’ve been told.” Remus smiled, easing him into a sitting position. “I got Alene out. And Akari. You saved her life.”

“You saved everyone.” Ed patted his hand weakly. Remus shook his head and Edgar frowned. “No? Who- oh.”

“Michael.” He felt hollow when he said it, the necklace of glass and blood stark in his memory.

Ed cleared his throat, ready for the worst. “No sign of Vera or Hugh, I take it?”

“None.”

“How’s Alene?”

“She-” Remus coughed, covering with his hand. There was something wet. He held his palm out and saw fresh droplets of blood. In his haste to preserve the other people, he failed to notice that he was growing steadily worse, and he was bad enough to begin with. He ignored Edgar’s concerned expression, but fear gnawed at his insides. Inside. Something hurt inside, something near his heart, sharp. “Ed, her legs are ruined. She’ll have to be very fortunate to walk again.”

“Shit.” he grimaced again.

Remus waved the thoughts of Alene’s fate away, focusing on the person who needed him right then. “Let’s get you out of here.”

They were ten feet from the others when Edgar collapsed, taking Remus down with him, caught off guard.

“Ed?” Remus’s voice was filled with panic. He rolled him onto his back quickly, searching for any external cause to this sudden shift. It wasn’t his leg, he hadn’t been walking on it. Remus patted his cheeks frantically and Ed’s head lolled to the side, limp, eyes shut, lips parted in silent speech. A cold wind glided past the pines and passed through his copper hair, but he did not stir. “ED! Wake up! Wake up right now!”

His hands fumbled to Edgar’s neck and came up absent, his veins devoid of that slow, pulsating sound of hope. Edgar Marks had no pulse.

Remus pressed his lips shut to contain the whimper that threatened to leave them, his eyes burning with tears. The sharp pain in his chest was nothing to this dull, burning ache of loss. He screamed something unintelligible. He screamed to the cloudy sky and the emerald pines and the smoking metal. Because his brother was dead. Edgar Marks was dead.

“No.” He found himself saying, the word slipping into the air. He held onto it, seized it. No. No. No. “No.”

He placed his palms on Edgar’s chest and began compressions. He hardly knew how, only doing what he assumed to be correct. One, two, three, he laced his hands into a fist and struck hard. Pinched his nose shut and attempted to give him some of his air.

“One, two three,” Remus counted out, feeling dizzy. Darkness threatened to invade his vision and he blinked it away, taking a deep breath. “One, two, three. Time to breathe, Ed. Time to breathe.” Tears began to fall and his words became increasingly desperate. “God, don’t take him, you can’t have my brother. Edgar, breathe! Breathe!”

On this last command, he struck Ed’s chest with his fist again.

Breathe.

Edgar Marks gasped, arching his back and wincing, collapsing onto his side, filling his lungs with clean air.

He couldn’t help it. Remus laughed, relieved, his voice finally clear. He laughed and in his giddiness kissed Ed on his brow like he had with Alene. “You’re alive. You’re alive!”

He stood, giving Ed a moment to recover before he went to check on Alene and Akari. He needed to retrieve Michael Lowden’s body. He needed-

Remus took one step and was overcome by a stabbing in his chest, the same as before, only amplified. A stabbing in his heart. His chest seized. The wave of darkness he was holding back finally broke free and cascaded over him, sending him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him as he landed on his back. A muted voice shouted his name. Two.

The pain slowly began to fade and he closed his darkened eyes against the bright sky, breathing the crisp scent of the German pines, feeling the softness of the grass and wind around his battered body, the treasured warmth of his life slowly cooling.

_If he couldn’t live, Edgar Marks had to._

Something told him this was it. The death of Remus at the hands of Romulus, brothers of Rome. Ransom was Romulus, building his walls, his empire, and Remus transgressed the boundaries. But someone else would come along to take them down. A legacy didn’t end so quickly.

What was it that Novak had told him all those years ago on the bridge? That he wasn’t the protector he thought he was? That there was only so much he could do? It was true. There was only so much he could do. But Akari Hayashi was safe. Alene Holland was safe. The woman he loved was safe. He brought Edgar Marks back from death. He would live another day, see his wife again, see Russ and Siobhan. 

There was only so much Remus could do, but with pleasant calm he decided that what he had done was enough. 

He was only human.

That was even more obvious to him than usual in this moment. 

_ You think you’ve won, Ransom. You got me in the end. But I’ve got them. That’s three you can’t have. I don’t want to go, I truly don’t, but at least I will go in peace. I’ve bled for victory. I saved them. You can’t have them and you can’t have my peace. _

_ I am glad I didn’t kill you. I mourn for those lost because I did not, but I know in my heart that I made the right choice. My conscience is clean and I will die the man I’ve always been. The man Maeve Granger married and loved until her death. I am the man my son sees and trusts to keep him safe. _

_ One day you will know what I know now. We are just men on this earth. Our time will always come to an end. If mine is now, then so be it. Yours will follow. You can play at being a god, but it will only leave you burned. _

_ I pity you. I pity you because you will never know the peace I hold so dearly right now. You will never know what it means to love this fiercely. To care so deeply for the lives of others. You will never age with grace. You spiral ever closer to oblivion with each step. And I- I have my peace. _

Remus thought he could hear the faint wailing of sirens in the distance. Someone had seen the crash. Help was coming. But possibly too late for him. 

“I love you,” he whispered to his son, hundreds of miles away, hoping the wind would carry his message. He was so very tired. “Be strong. Be kind.”

The sound of sirens was becoming clear. Shouting began.

“I’ll say hello to your mum for you.”

He opened his eyes and saw the endless sky and smiled.

_“Remus, stay with me! Please, you have to help him…”_

-

_Present day._

Alene Holland lay sleeping beside her husband, the rescued MI6 agent nextdoor. Thankfully, Remus’s predictions for her were incorrect. She walked again. But never without pain. Never without the memory of being pulled away from the place that reeked of blood, smoke, and death.

_“You know, you’re the only person in the world who calls me Lena.”_

Months later, Helena Rose Morrow was created. Lena. A name she couldn’t part with. A name to hide behind.

Now, Helena Wistaff lay sleeping.

It was only tomorrow that Alene Holland would return to the world.

Countries away, a man lay sleeping, haunted by dreams of a family lost.

A man who believed in his heart what he was told so many years ago by a woman he trusted with his life.

A man who was told that Icarus Quinn Saoi died in 2004 at the age of seventeen.


	13. Icarus Falls

They entered the Louvre quarter to ten. Q placed a frequency jammer in the lining of Bond’s coat to aid him in getting his gun past the metal detectors. For his laptop he explained that he required it for a research project and after a short exchange and excessive smiling, he was allowed to pass and his case was handed to him.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” James teased, plucking a map from a desk as they passed.

Q chuckled wryly. “If I was even remotely charming I’m quite certain I’d have been getting my equipment back in an optimal amount of pieces.”

“All you had to do was ask politely,” James hummed, causing Q to laugh.

But then he thought of Bond’s frequent inability to bring even himself back in one piece and decided he wouldn’t bring the equipment up again. Not until it mattered. He was done chastising him over small slights.

They walked the halls in reverent silence, taking in the opulent walls, high vaulted ceilings, and beautifully preserved works of art as they made their way to their destination.

Normally, Q would be elated to be in the presence of such beauty. He’d always had a special place in his heart for the Louvre, but not entirely due to the art. There was his personal history, his parents. The father he lost and the mother he barely got to know. Perhaps he sought to achieve some sort of connection through the place. Grasping at ghosts among marble statues and masterpieces. It was all that was there for him that day. Ghosts. After all, he was chasing his father’s supposed colleague. Getting Holt and Aegis back safely were the priorities, yes, but he had a selfish reason that he dared not mention to Bond. If Dutch was truly being candid about their close relationship to Remus Saoi then Q wanted to know everything. Not just Aegis and what it was, but who his father was outside of home. His friends aside from Ed Marks. Stories. Secrets. Why Ransom Novak hated him so much.

He remembered the face of Novak well. It felt like something scarred in his mind, an image that would never fully disappear. The man who he met when he was ten years old on a cold winter day. When death came knocking. It was the first time he had truly seen his father angry, watching from the second floor bannister as Remus shoved Novak into a wall, growling at him to get out of their house.

Two days later, Remus and Russ disappeared for six years.

Q didn’t realize they stopped walking until he nearly ran into James, stopping himself just inches before running into his injured shoulder.

Far above them on the ceiling was the mural, surrounded by smaller scenes. A silent sound of awe escaped him and he swore he saw James smile as he craned his head to study the scene.

It seemed like an hour rather than minutes that he stood there with his head angled back, observing the mythological figures suspended in the elaborate hues of the sky, Apollo’s chariot soaring above the father and son, Daedalus glancing behind at him much too late, Icarus’s wings falling apart as he was frozen in a perpetual state of descent. The illumination, the details, the raw emotion as a favourite trope of the Greeks was captured: facing your fate. Daedalus knowing he would have to carry on without a son. Icarus knowing he was doomed for his folly.

 _Don’t be him,_ Q’s name said. _Be better. Fly, but do not fall._

Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate that reversed the roles, sending Daedalus to his death, his son left to mourn, orphaned.

Fourteen years ago. He had ample time to move on, but everything about this mission brought it back in the worst possible way. Q accepted the concept of his father’s death, the death of his godfather, the death of the team. But not the pain. He could never accept the pain.

Revenge was foreign to him. It dangled itself above him, tempting, but he did not reach for it. Not revenge. Justice, perhaps. An end to this silent war of theirs.

“Good morning, gentlemen!”  a voice brought him back to earth and out of his thoughts.

A man stood before them, the same height as Bond, mirroring his dark blonde hair and blue eyes, but that was where the similarities stopped. His face was slightly longer, brow more intense, eyes keen in an energetic sort of way.

“My name is Harry Wistaff and I’ll be your tour guide for today,” the man continued jovially, smiling broadly. His button down was rolled up to his elbows and a pair of thin framed glasses sat atop his nose. He looked casual, borderline professional. Non threatening. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

Bond was taught as a wire, prepared to snap in a moment’s notice. Only Q could see this, however. He was attuned to the subtle shifts in his demeanor. Harry Wistaff likely still saw the same composed individual he was before.

“Thank you, but we don’t need a guide.”

“Are you quite certain?” Harry Wistaff raised an eyebrow. “I know of some Dutch works that may be of interest to you.”

_Dutch._

“Are you Dutch?” Q inquired, stepping closer.

Wistaff’s smile reduced to a small one, less intense and full of pretense. “Dutch is two people. But yes, I happen to be one of them. You must be Quincy.”

“Q is fine.”

“Q,” Wistaff obliged. He gestured down the hall politely. “Would you two follow me? The Cour Marly is ever so lovely in the daylight.”

 

-

 

Harry Wistaff wasn’t lying. It was stunning.

The courtyard seemed to be plucked from the statue garden of ancient royalty, marble statues placed around the tiered space, small steps leading to each level. Natural light flooded in from the massive panes of glass in place of the roof, brightening the statues and adding a shine to the potted ficus trees scattered about, giving the appearance of a small grove.

He led them down a single flight of stairs to the space between them and the opposing staircase where a few statues stood, nearly concealing the benches pressed against the walls, converging at a corner.

The area was devoid of visitors save for two women sitting at the stone benches. One was middle aged with short blonde hair and clear blue eyes. In her hands was a set of silver crutches with leather cuffs, likely for comfort. The other woman-

“Cas!” Bond seemed surprised, no doubt expecting that Dutch wouldn’t hold up their end of the bargain. But there the agent sat, smiling and unharmed in a new sweater and and trousers that were slightly too short for her. Q guessed they belonged to the other woman. The second half of Dutch.

“Bond. Q.” Cas waved them over with a smile and that was when Q noticed that Dutch was staring at him ever since he came into view. Her startling crystalline eyes followed every step he took, but it didn’t feel unnerving. She wasn’t judging or curious, she seemed… it was odd, but she seemed to _recognize_ him.

Even stranger was that he could swear he’d seen her before as well. In another life. A time long forgotten. A picture in his father’s office, maybe. Somewhere in the street. A passing face on the tube. Not recently, though. Her appearance was too memorable to forget easily. It wasn’t her beauty, rather the pain that radiated from her. The experience of something tragic that gave the sense of her being aged her beyond her years. He saw something similar in Bond.

Q sat. James took the seat next to his and Harry Wistaff settled himself beside Dutch, sitting atop a coat.

“As promised,” Dutch slid her hand into her jacket pocket, withdrawing a silver thumb drive, a Greek delta engraved in it. The symbol of Daedalus. Remus’s nickname at MI6.

She held it out to Q and he glanced at Bond briefly before accepting it, turning the drive over in his hand and finding no seams marking a cap.

Somehow, he thought to press the delta. Pushing the center of the symbol with his thumb resulted in a light click and the appearance of the USB plug.

Q cleared his throat, looking up at the woman. “How do I know this is real?”

“It’s real.” She and Wistaff replied at the same time. The two gave each other a look and Harry suppressed a chuckle, Dutch smiling.

“Blofeld knows better than to double cross us,” Wistaff elaborated. “We’re too far into the operation for him to risk that. He’s kept us under Novak’s radar for months now while we-”

“Forget Blofeld for a moment. How do you expect us to believe you?” Bond interjected. “For all we know you’re the ones who kidnapped Holt. This could all be a massive trap.”

“And yet you came.” Dutch pointed out. “You chose to not abandon your agent. You trusted us already by coming here and believing we had what we promised. Why has that changed when it’s in your hands?”

“Call it healthy skepticism.”

“‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,’” Harry quoted with amusement, surprisingly agreeing with Bond.

This appeared to vex him because James turned to his quartermaster. “Q, what are you thoughts on this?”

“I want to know why she keeps staring at me.” He said plainly, looking pointedly at Dutch. “Have we met before?”

Cas blinked, sitting forward with interest. Bond shifted, not expecting this turn.

Dutch gave a sad smile. “Your father’s funeral service. Brompton Cemetery. They buried his urn in the memorial garden during spring when the ground was softer.”

The scent of petrichor permeated his memory. Trees flush with leaves. There she was. Her pale hair damp from the light rainfall, knuckles white around the arms of her wheelchair.

_People began to trickle away. The silver haired, hawk eyed woman, Olivia Mansfield. M. A few of his father’s coworkers he recognized from over the years. Victoria Marks. Uncle Edgar’s funeral had been the week before. He knew the unfairness she faced. She lost her husband and a beloved friend. He lost a father and godfather._

_Aunt Siobhan and her wife, Jodie, stood off to the side under their umbrella, giving him space. He watched the priest depart, and soon there was no one left but his aunts and the woman in the wheelchair. A woman he didn’t know._

_The rain began to pick up, fat droplets rolling off the ends of his umbrella._

_He walked over to her, feeling the looseness of his suit with each step. He lost too much weight the past couple months, and he was already thin to begin with. He felt skeletal. As if his grave was waiting for him among all the others._

_Russ stood close enough so that the umbrella covered them both._

_The woman looked up in surprise, but her expression gradually settled back into despondence._

_“You’re kind.” she said, her voice rough and grated, sounding sore from disuse. As if she hadn’t spoken to a living soul in a long time. The words came slow, enunciated carefully. “Thank you.”_

_He tried to smile but his face barely twitched. “Is there someone to take you home?”_

_She shook her head, her short hair sticking to her jaw. “I’m alone here. Alone as the day I was born.”_

_“But we’re not alone when we’re born,” he said before he could help himself. She looked up at him again, but this time she didn’t look away. He took this as his cue to elaborate. “There’s a mother. Maybe a father. Or another mother. Doctors and nurses. Someone. There’s always someone, isn’t there?”_

_Her laugh was a pleasant spark of life. “You_ sound _like him. Look like him.”_

_“Like who?”_

_“Your father. Remus.”_

_“How well did you know him?”_

_She looked at the mound of fresh dirt in the blooming garden. “Not as well as I wanted to.” She faced him once again. “You don’t have to stay.”_

_He adjusted his hold on his umbrella, taking a breath. “No one should be alone.”_

Q sighed, deflating, eyes on the floor. Then on her. “You were alone. In a wheelchair.”

“It was raining.” she said, smiling softly. “You shared your umbrella.”

His throat felt dry, the flash drive weighing a million pounds in his hand. “Who _are_ you?”

“Too many people.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She breathed, meeting his stare. “I’m Dutch. Helena Wistaff. And-” another breath. “I’m Alene Holland.”

Helena. Alene.

Dutch. Holland.

Harry Wistaff and Holt shared a significant look.

“Alene Holland died after the plane crash.” Q shook his head, his veins buzzing, head spinning. “I know every one of their names. I know how they died. Remus Saoi, en route to the hospital. Edgar Marks, his heart gave out. Vera Thomas and Hugh Macken fell to their deaths. Michael Lowden bled out. Akari Hayashi too. And Alene bloody Holland.”

“Akari Hayashi died five days after the crash.” she insisted. “She died of complications after her surgery. She would have lived. Kari- she lived long enough to tell M what happened.”

“You couldn’t tell M yourself?” Bond tested. “If you are who you say you are?”

Q thought of her hoarse voice at the cemetery. The way she spoke.

“No,” Q said, understanding. “No, she couldn’t.”

Alene Holland nodded. “I was mute for months afterward. I was under so much medication for the pain that I don’t recall if they said it was head trauma or… just trauma. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t walk. Peripheral neuropathy. Shrapnel damaged the nerves in my legs. But I lived.”

“And my father?” Q demanded. “Did we really bury him? Or is that an empty grave?”

“It’s him.” Alene confirmed. Her eyes gleamed with tears. “I’m sorry, but it’s him.”

A phone buzzed and Harry took one from his pocket, answering it as he walked off to the side.

“That’ll be our informants outside.” Alene said hastily, planting the feet of her crutches on the ground. Cas stood and took her arms, helping her up. “We’re nearly out of time. There’s so much I need to tell you two. Cassandra here knows some, but not all. There’s an attack on MI6 being planned as we speak. Our journey with Sceptre stops here. We must part ways. They don’t know Dutch is two people and they don’t know our faces, but they know that Agent Holt and Aegis are together. You need to leave this country while you still can.”

“What about you and Wistaff?” Cas gathered her coat, standing next to Bond as he rose. “You were an MI6 agent too, you can come back. Tell them what you know.”

Alene shook her head. “Not now. There’s someone waiting for me. You’re not the only people I’m trying to protect.”

“Who?” Bond asked sharply, staring her down. “Who are you protecting? Because it only seems like it’s you and Harry right now. What you two know could be paramount in taking them down. You can’t keep running.”

“I’ve been running for thirteen years,” Alene snapped, fitting her wrists into the cuffs of the braces. “This is me taking a stand. You have Aegis, which is what I’m sure M sent you to get. Use it.”

“Tell me why my father wanted to destroy this!” Q demanded, holding Aegis up in the air. “Why should we utilize something he viewed as an abhorrence?”

She glanced at Harry, standing a few feet away, then back to Q. “There isn’t enough time to explain. This goes so much deeper than you know.”

“Come with us, then!” he urged. “We can protect you and Harry. You’ll be safe in MI6.”

“I step in that building and I’m dead!” her voice rose to echo around the courtyard. Her eyes were wild. “I want to help you, I truly do, but I’m dead the moment they know I’m alive. M died and took our secrets to the grave. No one is meant to find us until Ransom Novak is taken care of! But she’s gone and there are traitors in that place. They’ve been there since Spectre. Max Denbigh was only part of your problem. They won’t know I’m Dutch but Alene Holland, a _survivor_ of that attack? An original member of the offensive team, one you lot have recreated? I have a target on my head. You all do. Now, Agent Bond, I agree I’m useful. They’ll have no doubt told you that the original information on Novak’s operations was lost after the accident, but I have them buried. This,” she jammed her index finger into her forehead. “This doesn’t touch English soil. I’ve waited too long to take him down. But I’ve been careful. You’ve been at this for days. This is my life. Let me do this the way I know how.”

Before anyone could even respond to that, Harry came bounding back, face filled with urgency. “I’ve secured passage to Denmark but we need to get to the airport now.” He looked to James and Q, almost scared. “They were followed.”

“Us?” Bond reached for his gun, drawing it and looking around the courtyard as if there was a threat behind each statue. “How can you be sure?”

Harry looked down at his phone and held the screen out to face them. “A friend up front says there’s people asking for two men that answer your descriptions. Lena, sweetheart, we need to run. Novak is with them.”

“I’m going with you.” Q stated.

Harry frowned. “It’ll be dangerous. It’s too risky.”

“MI6 needs you right now.” Alene insisted. “Sceptre is converging on them. They came after my team last time. Now, it’s the whole institution. Take Aegis and buy yourselves time. No one had been able to activate it because it’s a lock and only M has the key. It should have been passed down with the position. That’s why he wants it. Lock and key together.”

“Are you certain?”

“Your father told me himself.”

“Then it’s settled.” James decided. “We can use this to attack first. Take them off guard, send them into a blackout.”

Shouts sounded in the distance and Cas pulled a gun from behind her back. How she managed to get it inside the museum was beyond him. Then again, she did come in with Dutch. They had their fair share of tricks up their sleeves. “Bond, we can run or hold them off, but we all can’t stay together once we hit the streets. Harry and Lena need to go.”

“Wait.” Q said without entirely meaning to. Something Alene said stuck in his mind and now he saw why it had. His mind was racing, running alongside this train of thought. _You're not the only people I'm trying to protect._ “You said M took ‘our’ secrets to the grave, but you never said Wistaff was part of your team. He's not MI6.”

“I'm not.” Harry affirmed. 

“Then who is ‘us’?”

There was a pause that lasted a short eternity.

“Me,” Alene said softly. An exhale. “And Edgar Marks.”

He felt as if he could collapse. As if he’d been struck in the head, stupefied. This couldn’t be happening. This truly wasn’t happening. But the tidal waves of rushing blood filled his ears, the pounding of a thousand drums, the burning of a thousand suns, he felt as if he could disintegrate. It was happening.

His mouth moved numbly at first.

“Edgar Marks is alive.” It tumbled from his lips, quiet but desperate.

“Edgar Marks is alive.”

A statue’s brilliantly sculpted head shattered into dozens of fragments of marble. Silence followed as everyone held their breath.

“Bond!” Ransom Novak’s voice resonated throughout the gallery, high above the screaming of visitors as they began to flee. They couldn’t see him yet, he was on the landing above them. That could mean they were still hidden as well. “Saoi! Surrender yourselves and hand over Dutch! No one needs to get hurt over this!”

“Run!” Harry hissed, gathering Alene up in his arms, the two of them taking off toward the nearest hall.

Q, Bond, and Holt sprinted, shots ringing after them. They wove around sculptures and trees, works of arts hundreds of years old being ravaged by gunfire, unmoving sentinels shielding the three agents.

There was a moment of hope, of fleeting success, that joy that Icarus felt as his fingertips brushed against the heat of the sun, not quite there but reaching, arm extended, wings spread, so very nearly close.

He felt that as the five of them burst outside and into the Parisian morning.

Then something seared past the side of Q’s head, knocking him to the ground, sending him into immediate darkness.

Icarus fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a tad disappointed that I couldn't fit as much description into this chapter as the last since I had to keep it from getting too wordy. I hope it still turned out okay. It's also significantly shorter compared to the previous chapter, but I think it's fine. Right? Oh well, you can't have everything, I suppose.  
> But you know what you can have?  
> A cliffhanger!  
> Enjoy this while I wrack my brains to produce an even more convoluted update for next time.  
> Cheers.


	14. The Secret Keepers

_MI6 Riverhouse, 2010_

 

_Olivia Mansfield stood at her desk, staring out of the window that overlooked the massive room of desks and computers below. There was a new face among those typing. She had Tanner oversee his initiation. Make sure he was situated comfortably, answer any questions._

_“He’s good,” Tanner came up to stand beside her, somehow knowing the object of her attention. “Within a year or two he’ll be quartermaster for sure. I’ve never seen anyone with his skillset.”_

_“And until then he’ll be what?” M turned to him, shaking her head. “Wasted potential stuck doing desk work? No. Send him down to Q-Branch. He’ll be right at home there.”_

_After all, his father had brought him in to visit numerous times. The place would be familiar._

_But perhaps not in the right way._

_He was familiar to her in the wrong way as well. She couldn’t look at him without seeing Remus Saoi after the sheet was removed to reveal his face. Six years ago. M identified the bodies. She took Akari Hayashi’s statement on what happened. Edgar Marks wasn’t stable enough. He coded twice, once in the ambulance, once in surgery. Three times if she was to count when Remus restarted his heart. Marks was on a ventilator when she arrived._

_Alene Holland was an entirely different case. M remembered trying to speak to her through the haze of the pain medication the younger woman was under. But she never uttered a syllable._

_No more than a week later, Hayashi died from her injuries._

_When Marks was able to come off the ventilator and his cardiac issues were resolved, when Holland was able to begin physical therapy, she moved them somewhere they couldn’t be found. But then it was. It was found and they were evacuated with very few complications, but it was too close. After everything she had done to keep them safe. The families of the victims._

_Now, six years later, Icarus Quinn Saoi was recruited into MI6. And M was looking right at him._

_“I’ll let him know he’s being transferred.” Tanner nodded, excusing himself from the room._

_“Wait,” M said. There was someone else down there that she was watching. “Holmes’ son, Taron Ives. Send him up here.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_Taron Ives was an interesting case. She had known his father, Alaric Holmes, for years and disliked him with a burning passion. But she had sympathy for Ives. Before he was transferred from MI5 he was doing mainly desk work, running around and working odd hours, vying for his father’s approval. Taron himself appeared quite detached from everyone else, apathetic and uncaring. A facade, undoubtedly. A good one, though._

_“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” A voice came from the doorway after a few minutes._

_M gestured toward the seat in front of her desk. Taron sat, attentive and polite. Plain faced. Unfeeling._

_Perhaps that was what she needed for this assignment. Someone who wasn’t too close. Someone who couldn’t possibly become close to it._

_“I need you to do something for me. I need you to help me keep a secret."_

_-_

_Present day_

 

Taron Ives knew it was going to be a terrible day when he picked up the phone and heard his father on the other end, not to say it wasn’t going sour already.

Augusta Ann Reilly, otherwise known as Lovelace, had taken control of Q-Branch as interim quartermaster, but he couldn’t complain about that in the slightest. They did need some modicum of authority down there lest someone get the idea that playing video games was of higher priority than national security. No, the problem was that Lovelace was almost as free spirited as Bond, but with an intellectual capacity to equal Q’s. Ives was the relay to M now that Tanner had a unit of his own to run so it was him that agents ran to when bomb shields or guns went missing, and it was him that had to go find her in a test room or firing range where she was ‘working’. Lovelace added the biochemical component to Q-Branch’s products, the Smart Blood tracking system her and Q’s brainchild.

When he went to seek her out, he found her running around the medical wing in full scrubs, not at all doing what she was assigned to do. Ives attempted to confront her about the missing equipment and she waved him off, insisting that she needed to get back to Dr. Arthur Descartes and help with the patients. He offered to scrub up, be of any assistance, but she shrugged him off. Maybe an extra pair of hands was needed, but just not from him.

His unpopularity was no secret to him, but he was given strict orders when he took his position, the general idea of it being: no personal connections. Do not get to know them, do not befriend them. Emotions complicate everything. Taron was sensitive going into the position, but when he saw what became of the quartermaster, how _his_ sensitivity, the fact that _he_ let it get personal, weakened him visibly and internally, he understood. Apathy, indifference, Ives decided, truly was more effective. Although he witnessed Arthur, Q, Eve, and Cassandra working harmoniously as a family, that wasn’t a cue to join the crowd. Functional families were an entirely foreign concept in his world.

Ives and Moneypenny had intercepted a line of communication between known Sceptre operatives the morning after Bond, Q, and Holt departed for Paris. He sent her with a small team to Helsinki to take them out, only for them to find an explosive waiting at the meeting site rather than the Sceptre members. She escaped with scratches and minor burns. Others were not so lucky. Taron ordered her to refrain from divulging the details of this failed mission to Bond’s team, and it appeared that she complied. But when Q sent in his status report that evening it had a question about Helsinki. Apparently Bond had a pleasant chat with Acerbi- Novak- whichever- and was told about it. There was also an attempt on Dr. Descartes’ life when he and Moneypenny took a break which Ives wasn’t aware of. It was incredibly frustrating, being unable to contain information or obtain it.

On top of that, Descartes used the last of the coffee in the break room in order to stay awake tending to the wounded from Helsinki. Even those with major injuries were evacuated back to MI6 when one was killed by someone posing to be a nurse at the hospital they were sent to. Descartes hadn’t slept in close to thirty-six hours. But Taron was still bitter when he had to settle for decaf.

Now, there was the matter of his father.

The line at his desk rang and he picked it up in a swift, practiced movement so he could continue typing with his dominant hand, eyes not leaving his screen. “SIS Liaison Agent Taron Ives speaking.”

 _“Are they really still calling it that?”_ the condescending male voice asked, and Ives could see his face clearly, the haughty curl of his lips, upturned nose. _“You’re not much more than a secretary.”_

Taron breathed through his nose, his typing ceased. “Hello, father.”

 _“Taron.”_ he said. Not a greeting, merely an acknowledgement of his existence. _"_ _How did you enjoy Helsinki? I hear there was a bit of a bonfire.”_

“I wouldn’t know,” he said slowly. “I wasn’t there.”

_He would know that, right? He had to know you wouldn’t be there. That you weren’t in harm's way._

But there was a pause.

 _“That’s a pity,”_ his father said. _“I’ve heard it's a lovely place. Now, as much as I enjoy our rare talks I didn’t call to chat and this is quite urgent. I’d like you to put me through the the Unit Chief for the Sceptre investigative team.”_

“You’re speaking to him.”

A pause. Then, a low chuckle. _“Well isn’t that a wonder? You’ve actually turned yourself into something useful. Run along and tell Mallory that Director General Alaric Holmes is on his way to discuss an urgent matter.”_

“And what might that be?” Ives kept his voice level, attempting to not sound bristled by the thinly veiled insults.

_“Chairwoman Cynthia Levian was assassinated earlier this morning . We believe Sceptre to be responsible. Gather your…team, I expect to be seeing them within the hour.”_

“Very good. And, father-”

_“Don’t forget that I want access to all incoming information from the Parisian team no later than tonight.”_

Click.

Ives sighed and resumed his typing. _Team._ It was only him and Moneypenny at the moment, and at least he could count on her to be professional as usual. With any luck this meeting could go perfectly smooth.

Trying to please his father, Ives learned, was a mission that was doomed to failure. It was akin to coaxing life into a withered plant, plying it with water, sunlight, brushes with accomplishment, but nothing would ever be enough. Son of the Director General of military intelligence, banished to desk work. He took his dead mother’s surname out of shame. Taron would not live up to being a Holmes. He’d been told as much since day one. Better to not be part of it anymore.

Perhaps that was what made him bitter. The endless cycle of rejection, the serpent eating its own tail and suffocating itself with it. But if that was the case, why did he still try? Did he truly believe there was a small ember of kinship that could be revived? Or was he simply allowing himself to be a pawn to his father’s whims. Running around the table, searching for scraps of affection or ways to make himself useful. Something to ponder. After all, his future and futility walked hand in hand.

It was strange, but he’d come to terms with that. With all he’d done. It wasn’t too late to make amends. Something good on the way out.

Until then, he was the cold man. The unwanted length of poison ivy twining around and trying to secure a place.

Then Cassandra Holt sent in a mission report informing him that they had a run-in with Novak, resulting in a shootout within the Louvre.

She was returning. Her and James Bond.

-

Bond and Holt were immediately summoned into a meeting the moment they got to headquarters.

An agent tipped them off that a beaurocrat from one of the sister agencies may be attending the meeting, meaning that they needed a very good explanation for returning without their quartermaster. Something that wouldn’t end with Arthur sending hellhounds after him.

_Everything happened so fast._

_Harry was swift in getting Alene to safety, Bond, Q, and Holt close behind. But the shooters were getting too close. A bullet tore along the side of Cas’s coat and she made a sound of surprise._

_Then another grazed Q’s skull and he went down. Hard. Cas tried to catch him, slow his fall, and she did, but his head still hit the ground. Bond didn’t recall what he yelled, dropping down and pulling Q and Cas against a wall, frantically checking them for critical injuries. There was little in terms of a wound, but there was still blood. An uncomfortable amount._

_Q’s eyes opened and didn’t focus. Concussion._

_“Get him up,” Bond grunted, indicating for Cas to get one of his arms. Surprisingly, Q was conscious enough to be of some help, stumbling along mutely, dazed, half awake and slowly losing that status._

_Tourists were already streaming through the exit, providing cover but slowing them down. And Bond wasn’t sure Novak would blink at shooting down civilians. Unless he was true to his word. He didn’t believe in killing without purpose._

_But perhaps getting Dutch, Q, and Aegis were purpose enough._

_They fled across the courtyard and found two cars waiting among the influx of emergency vehicles that spared no time in responding._

_“Ours friends dropped them off.” Wistaff said, helping Alene into the backseat of one. “Get the hell out of France before it’s too late, eh?”_

_“Bond,” Alene reached out to him, not quite touching. “M wants Aegis because he knows Q can use it, correct?”_

_He nodded._

_“Then they’ve become a package deal. All or none. Do you understand?”_

_He did. Alene moved over, allowing him to guide Q into the seat beside her._

_“They won’t believe we don’t have it if we come back with him,” James searched through Q’s pockets until he found the small drive. “So we separate the lock from the key. You keep him safe and we’ll take care of this.”_

_“Lovelace,” Q murmured groggily. He blinked a few times and prodded at the patch of blood on his temple, frowning. “Lovelace. Get it to Lovelace.”_

Those were the last words he heard before they were forced to separate and flee.

Lovelace.

Cas was already in their car and the two agents drove off only seconds before bullets started hitting the street. He wished she would have said something, something to validate the decision he just made. Sending Q to God-knows-where with people whose names changed with the tide. Bond was going off of Cas and Q’s judgements. They trusted the Wistaffs.

But James had trusted Madeleine Swann as well. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he had endangered Q in any way. It was unthinkable.

Taron Ives met them outside of the conference room, scanning the agents up and down. His eyes settled on Cas’s torn sleeve and the supplies they bought from a duty free store at the airport. “Rough day, was it? I heard you lot had a smashing day at the Louvre, emphasis on ‘smashing’. Not much for classical art, are we?”

“Let the record state that none of us discharged any weapons within the gallery,” Cas stared back at him, looking rather irritated. James couldn’t blame her in the slightest.

Ives nodded. “It’ll have to, we’ll be requiring a full first account report on all of your activities in France. You know, rumour has it that we’ve got a bit of a security issue at the moment.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Ives raised an eyebrow. “And it seems like you’ve had a raring time with Madeleine Swann and company. Which begs the obvious question.”

Holt scoffed. “Do you actively attempt to be an arse or is that a part of your personality?”

“I don’t enjoy being wrong so I’ll say ‘both’ to be safe.”

Holt took a threatening step toward the man and James intercepted her, positioning himself between them. He angled his head to look at Ives directly. No boundaries, little space. Ives stepped back, eye flitting away. Bond closed the distance again.

“I don’t like you, Ives,” he said simply, setting a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. “And I don’t like what you’re insinuating here. See, I have my own suspicions about the mole and if they prove to be true… well, it would be very unpleasant for you.”

“Is that a threat?” Taron’s throat bobbed.

“Is that a confession?”

Ives didn’t get a chance to respond, which might have been lucky for him. The door to the conference room opened and a rather tall man stepped out, looking between the three of them, lips curled in distaste. “So it’s you who’s causing this racket out here. Unhand my son and get in here, I want this over with.”

“Apologies, Mister Ives,” Bond said suavely with a mastered smile of politeness. He brushed off Taron’s shoulder and held his hand out to shake.

“Ives was my wife’s surname, that’s Director General Holmes to you,” he said brusquely, striding back into the room without addressing the gesture.

“Doesn’t fall far from the tree, this one, does he?” Holt muttered, and Bond chuckled.

Taron shot them both a look but kept mum, holding the door for them.

Moneypenny was standing in front of the large window, staring out over the Thames, apparently lost in thought. It seemed that the meeting had been adjourned for the time being and they were waiting for the arrival of Bond and Holt before continuing. M, who sat at the head of the table, appeared uncomfortably stressed, his mouth pinched into a severe line. The Director General sat adjacent to him and across from his son who gave the impression that he was even less pleased to be there than M, if even possible.

“We’ve just finished discussing the recent assassination of Chairwoman Cynthia Levian,” M explained, waving his hand toward the vacant seats. “Sceptre seems to be amassing its resources to launch an attack, MI6 intending to be its targets. Sit down, we’ll be discussing your mission in Paris. I assume that it was successful? Agent Holt’s report was rather vague on the matter.”

“I was rescued from Blofeld by a rogue operative working within the network, someone with direct access to Aegis,” Holt divulged, sitting between Bond and Moneypenny. “They arranged a meetup with Q by hacking into his laptop. The fi- four of us met in the Louvre, understanding it to be a simple pass off. Aegis and me to Bond and Q.”

At the mention of Aegis, Holmes sat forward with interest. “So your quartermaster does indeed have the program?”

“Alaric,” M checked him with a look. “You’re here to observe, not lead the inquiry.”

“My apologies.”

“The answer to that is no, Director General.” Holt replied nonetheless. “Q is not in possession of Aegis.”

Before anyone other than Bond could unpack that, Arthur Descartes stormed into the room, red hair tousled as if he’d just woken up from a stolen nap at his desk. He looked more like a curator than a medical doctor with his three piece suit, sans lab coat. “I didn’t see Q come in and he’s not in casualty. Can someone explain to be why there’s only two out of three accounts accounted for?”

“Where’s Q?” M looked around, suddenly noting his absence. He looked to Cas. “Holt?”

“I’ve no idea, sir.” She pursed her lips, looking sideways at James. “We lost contact when we were ambushed.”

“Bond?” M turned to him, a vein in his neck sticking out so far that children could play skipping rope with it. “Where is he?”

“I’m unable to say.”

“Oh that’s just wonderful, isn’t it?” Ives threw his hands up, falling back in his seat with a cold, incredulous laugh. “We send you to Paris with two agents and task you with recovering a thumb drive. The quartermaster had Aegis _in his hands_ and somehow you lost the program _and_ him! Bad enough we had to deal with Bond taking his impromptu holiday, now we’re losing quartermasters. Shall we ask Sceptre for a rain check? ‘So terribly sorry but James Bond has misplaced our main defensive strategy and the only man who is capable of deploying it, would you pretty please not kill us until we find them both?’”

“Can someone shut him up?” Moneypenny slammed her hand down on the table, looking around for someone to take the mantle, but James was already moving, out of his seat, around the table. Too quick for Ives to get off his soapbox and realize he was being grabbed by his collar, his chair slammed into the wall with him in it.

“He’s not just your weapon,” James snarled, nearly nose to nose with the man. He felt as if he were burning up and hoped that Taron would be scorched by the flames he felt lapping at his throat. “So have a little more respect before I need to teach you what that means.”

Ives didn’t seem rattled unlike earlier, staring back calmly now. “I’m not afraid of you, old man.”

James took a step back and smiled.

Then he broke Taron’s nose.

Ives howled in pain, hands flying to his face as blood began to seep from his nostrils. Alaric Holmes chuckled from his seat across the table and Arthur rushed over with tissues, pressing them into Ives’ grasp.

“How was that?” he asked Bond once the bleeding was under control.

“Not too bad.”

“Good to know.” Arthur said, squaring his shoulders. “I’m deciding whether or not striking you is worth the suspension.”

“Don’t.” Moneypenny warned, although she was glaring significantly at James. “As much as I sympathize, Lovelace is stretched thin enough as she is and no one else is qualified enough to take over as quartermaster if she has to fill in for you.”

Ives raised a bloodied hand, holding the tissues to his nose with the other, speaking thickly, “I am.”

Bond hardly heard him, staring at Moneypenny. Lovelace. Arthur and Eve knew Lovelace.

He had to get one of them out of the meeting. Time was of the essence. He needed Lovelace to use Aegis. James had thought about what he would do the whole time coming back to England and reached a solution that he was sure Q would be proud of, and it was sure to give M an aneurysm which would please Arthur. The mole couldn’t know where Aegis was. So he had to destroy it in front of them.

“Q doesn’t have Aegis because I do.” Bond withdrew a silver flash drive from his pocket, setting it gently on the table. Immediately, he could see everyones attentions piqued.

But Director General Holmes was the only one that made a move toward it, the others avoiding it as if it would spontaneously combust.

 _You._ Bond thought. _I’ve got you._

Before the man could so much as touch it, James drew his weapon, eliciting shouts. But he didn’t train it on Holmes. Instead, he placed the muzzle directly on the drive and fired.

The bullet went clean through the metal and stuck in the dense wood of the table, a thin band of smoke curling up from it.

Holmes howled, pained, and M stood abruptly, eyes wide with shock. Holt, Moneypenny, and Ives simply stared, unsure of what to say. To them he had just destroyed a critical weapon against Sceptre.

“A wise man named Remus Saoi knew the dangers of this device,” James said sagely, tossing the mangled drive to Holmes who caught it, holding it with reverence and disbelief. “And he wanted to see it destroyed. I can’t pretend to understand what it is capable of doing but he certainly knew. It has been in the hands of Sceptre for too long and this is the only way to keep it from returning there.”

He holstered his weapon and left the room, M following hot on his heels as he knew he would, Arthur not far behind.

“Bond, how on _earth_ could you-”

James silenced him by producing Aegis, waving the engraved delta in front of him. “I didn’t. I picked that one up at the airport as a duplicate.”

A moment of brief silence passed, a beat where understanding blossomed and realization flourished.

“To dissuade the mole from searching any further.” M ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I’ve been a blind man. Alaric. He’s MI5. We’ve only been looking for someone within our walls, but as Director General he walks right through them.”

“Keep an eye on him and his son.” Bond said, lowering his voice and moving further down the hall, M and Arthur keeping close. “Holmes was the only one to try to take it. But I’m still not convinced Ives is wholly innocent.”

“What about Q?” Arthur inquired, finally reaching the point that directly concerned him, eyes tight with worry. “You wouldn’t have returned if he was taken. It’s not like you to give up like that, and you know it’ll need Q.”

“He’s safe.” Bond was surprised at the comforting warmth of the words. _He’s safe._ His shoulders sagged a little, as if they’d been carrying the weight of concern ever since they parted at the Louvre. “And he said that someone called Lovelace would be qualified to activate it in his place. Do you think she’s capable?”

Arthur worried his lower lip, tapping his foot, thinking. “She’s good. I understand that biomed is more her forte. I’ve never known her to be big on programming, but she’s likely got most of Q-Branch beat so I’d trust her with it.”

“Then you haven’t a moment to lose.” M gave them only a resolute nod, one that spoke volumes. It was a license Bond had seen only a few times from their stoic minister. _Do what you must._

_End this._

-

Taron’s phone went off and he excused himself from the room before M could come back. He passed by him in the hallway and merely gestured at his face as an explanation. There was hesitance in the minister’s face when he let him pass and Ives knew immediately what must have gone down when he followed Bond into the hallway.

Of course they suspected him. He didn’t see how they couldn’t.

He could feel a change in the atmosphere, though. It was different than before today.

The final moves of this long game were being played. Now he understood his new role. The mantle to pick up after he abandoned this one.

They were nearing the end and had to get them there.

It was the only way to absolve himself.

There was no way he could continue doing this. It was eating away at him. Too much for too long. 

He would have died without his father batting an eye. He knew that now.

-

Arthur found Lovelace in the infirmary while James made his way down to Q-Branch where her office sat, belonging to large conglomeration of rooms off to the side.

Her office was surprisingly spacious and organized, enough to pass a military inspection. Behind her desk hung a replica Baroque painting of a dark haired woman in a green dress. Artemisia Gentileschi’s _Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting._ Where there weren’t whiteboards on the walls, there were art prints. Small containers of powders and chemicals were labeled and colour coded on a shelf.

There was only a single photograph in the whole of the room, a candid picture of Q and a brunette woman, Lovelace, standing around a desk. Frozen in time, one angling a microscope to the other. Blueprints and formulas on scraps of paper littered about them.

“I see you’ve noticed the photo of my favourite erudites,” an amuses voice spoke from behind him. “R excluded. Although I suppose it counts, he did take the picture.”

“Lovelace.” Bond turned, facing the same woman from the photograph. Rich brown hair and glittering hazeline eyes, her smile setting a light to them.

“She would’ve been R but I got to the name before she did,” Arthur teased good-naturedly, edging around her to enter the room. “Thank you again for your help up in medical. I just checked in and they appear to have everyone stabilized now.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Lovelace smiled and waved her hand at Bond, motioning for him to step away from her desk. She took a seat and searched around for a tin of ginger mints, popping one into her mouth and closing her eyes. “007, I heard you lost our quartermaster.”

“Did Arthur say that?”

The guilty party snorted, leaning against a wall casually but looking as if he were about to fall over. Everyone had been worked to the bone lately.

“Do you know what Aegis is?” Bond asked, handing the flash drive to her, surprised at how cold her hands were when his own brushed against one.

“Of course.” Her eyes lit up even further, blatant awe painting her face. “How on earth did you even manage to recover it?”

“A new friend.”

The vagueness was so blatantly obvious that Arthur became slightly irritated. Either the lack of sleep was getting to him or he was getting tired of the usual smoke and mirrors that came as second nature to those in espionage. He was a doctor. He preferred straightforward.

“What are you hiding?” Arthur found himself inquiring, only half expecting a proper answer from Bond. It sounded too much like an accusation, but it was not unwarranted. No doubt Cas was giving the mission report in the meeting he and Bond marched out of but he suspected she was being equally ambiguous with her answers.

Unsurprisingly, the agent didn’t answer.

He sighed, but wasn’t quite ready to give this up. Arthur despised being on the sidelines, shunted out of the field, especially when it concerned his best friend. Brother. Q. He had no knowledge as to his whereabouts, only the word of James Bond. _He’s safe._

Lovelace had inserted the drive into her own computer and was typing furiously, brow becoming more furrowed by the second. He’d never seen her so vexed over something before, Dr. Reilly usually able to crack a puzzle in a moment.

But Aegis would be a puzzle that fought back, wouldn’t it? Arthur peeled himself away from the wall to plant his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning over to see her screen to observe.

“I can’t do this,” she admitted with difficulty, ejecting the drive and turning it over in her hand. “There’s malware written into it. If I kept at it another minute it would’ve went after my whole system. And there’s a timer with limited attempts to decode the access key. I can’t risk contaminating MI6 data with a virus.”

“Q said to get it to you,” Bond said slowly, visibly confused. “I assumed you would be able to solve it.”

Lovelace shook her head. “This is much too complicated for me, he would have to know that Aegis wouldn’t be simple enough. He said I could do it?”

“He only said to get it to you.”

Something changed. Imperceptible, but he saw it. Of course he would, being a surgeon. Life and limb rested on minutiae. And there was the subtle shift in her expression, so small that she likely didn’t even notice herself.

“Lovelace?” Arthur pried with verbal forceps, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at Aegis, running her thumb over it, then pressing the delta. The USB portion retracted and she was left with a small, dull, metal rectangle. “What do you see?”

Bond straightened his shoulders, looking down, expectant.

A wan smile flickered across Lovelace’s face. “Q didn’t want me to use this. He wanted me to destroy it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense-” Bond began, then stopped himself short. Something in his mind that Arthur wasn’t privy to told James that Lovelace was correct.

“This looks like the outside was made out of pure sodium,” Lovelace said evenly. “I play pranks on people with sodium. Ives just last week. Drop it in water and it immediately catches fire.”

“So Remus Saoi created a weapon that would corrupt the system of whoever failed to decrypt it and would catch fire the moment water touched it.” Arthur summed up, his mind racing. He let out a nervous laugh. “That quartermaster did everything he could to prevent Aegis from being used. Everything short of taking a bullet to it.” His gaze met Bond’s. “We need to know what this is. Who’s your friend?”

Bond glanced over his shoulder as if he was afraid his own shadow would be eavesdropping. God, the secrecy was never ending with this lot.

“An agent who survived the plane crash in 2004.”

“There were no survivors.” Arthur said bluntly.

“There was at least one that we know of,” Bond insisted, recalling what Alene Holland said to Q. That Edgar Marks was alive. It felt like it was only yesterday that they were sitting on the conference table, looking at the pictures of the dead agents, talking. How he longed for that normalcy. “Two at the most. Alene Holland and Edgar Marks. Both MI6.”

“I’m not finding any agents under those names.” Lovelace shook her head. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, prepared to make another attempt. “Neither past nor present. Even outside. According to our system they don’t even exist.”

Then, a voice cut in from the doorway, that of someone who had certainly not been there a moment ago.

“That’s because I buried them.” Taron Ives said, seemingly materializing out of the dim hallway.

The blood was cleaned from his face but there was an angry line of mauve on the bridge of his nose where the bone was broken. Despite this, he was as serene as ever.

Everyone looked up at him. Only Bond spoke.

“What do you mean you buried them?”

Ives sighed, then his face contorted, hand twitching as it went up near his nose. Still in pain.

“Years before M- Olivia Mansfield, that is- died I hid every file relating to those involved in the initial investigation on Ransom Novak.” he made his way into the room, perching on the arm of the sofa in the corner. “The survivors would be targets. If they were killed, they could never return home to their families. If they were abducted, they would face torture and end up being a liability to MI6 if they gave up sensitive information. If Novak got into Six he would find them. I had to make sure that couldn’t happen.”

“Are you saying M knew they were alive?” Bond asked, feeling his heart palpitating. Another one of her blasted secrets.

Ives nodded. “She hid them for years. Protected them. Watched over them. The world wasn’t safe for them until Ransom Novak was out of the picture. Every precaution was taken to ensure that they would never cross paths with him until a trial, if he lived to have one. M put me in charge of their affairs, so I buried Holland and Marks, the location of their safe house, their personal protection officer, everything, with a message to them that they were not to come out of hiding until they received a letter with a code word on it. A clean break. Sceptre was in MI6 way before Max Denbigh. Someone had to put the bomb on the plane. That’s why they were hidden in the first place. But it wasn’t enough. Their first safe house was discovered. That’s when M made the call. I was her keeper in case of her death. I would have to let them know when it was safe to come home.”

He took a moment to breathe and that was when Arthur saw it. Imperceptible, but present. A tear. A tear nestled in his eye, quickly blinked away.

“I misjudged you.” Bond said quietly.

Taron laughed, a single cold sound. “No. You didn’t. You were right. I am your mole. I have been since the day I was hired. I never gave anything about the survivors and the families of the team members. But your mission reports were not safe. I gave Blofeld complete access to Bond’s file while Denbigh pranced around playing God. I am who I am because of my father. He made me this. He’s the main leak. That mission to Helsinki, though? When the agents were blown up? He knew I was on the Sceptre team. He had no idea I wouldn’t be there. My own father sees me as collateral damage after all I’ve done for him.”

He crossed over to Lovelace’s desk and snagged a pen and pad of paper, scribbling down a short list of information before ripping it off and crumpling it into a ball, shoving it into Bond’s palm, looking him in the eyes. “This is the location of the safehouse and the names of the occupants. I was M’s keeper. Now you’re mine. I’m a selfish bastard. An arrogant prat. Kill me if you want to. Novak will do it if he finds out. But I’m not going to live this pathetic life any longer. I’ve lost everything trying to please a man that doesn’t care if I live or die.”

Nobody stopped him when he moved to the doorway, halfway out of the room.

“I’m going to turn myself in right now,” Taron addressed the dark hallway, refusing to look at anyone. “You have three days to decide whether you trust me or not. After that, Novak and Blofeld are launching a siege on this place. Your trust won’t matter because you won’t be alive.”  

Then he was gone.

“I’ll follow him,” Lovelace volunteered, tossing Aegis to Bond and strapping on a holster. “Make sure he keeps to his word.”

Bond nodded, stowing the drive back into his pocket. He didn’t want to trust Ives, but the temptation was too strong. What he had been handed was more than a place. It was a map to Q. To find him. It was only hours since they were separated but he could so clearly feel the ache. Something had changed over the past few days, so imperceptible that he couldn’t recognize it until it was gone. But he couldn’t name it. He couldn’t say it. Before every time it happened, it never ended well. Vesper. Madeleine.

Better not to think about it. Not until he could afford to.

He turned to Arthur, producing his signature devil-may-care smile.

“Fancy a trip to Denmark?”


	15. Ghosts by the Water

Q didn’t remember much of the flight. Lapsing in and out of conscious most of the way, it didn’t surprise him. He vaguely recalled someone mentioning a concussion. 

Shot in the head at the Louvre. That was a new one. 

Harry cleaned the wound and bandaged it up as best he could in the less than optimal environment of an airport restroom, earning confused and concerned looks from passerby. His French was fluent enough for him to give some people a sufficient excuse and exchange polite conversation while Q just stared at the wall, attempting to think through the concussive state he was in. It was improving as time went by, showing that it wasn’t as severe as he thought, but it was certainly there. 

Their vehicle rumbled down a gravel road that travelled alongside a brilliant blue fjord, heading toward a small forest, the rocks slowly turning to dirt. In one of his more clear moments he heard Alene tell him that they were in Denmark. Vejle, to be exact. They landed in Copenhagen hours ago, and Q silently thanked whatever force there was in the world that he was comprehensive and coherent at that time. Although his head ached and vision was blurred he was able to walk somewhat steadily and aid in finding their car in the car park. 

The drive took much longer than it should have, he realized slowly, noting the amount of times they doubled back or took side streets away from main roads. A two hour drive became significantly expanded until Harry was satisfied that they indeed hadn’t been followed to Vejle. 

It was perfect. Vejle, Denmark. A city, a country where Novak wouldn’t possibly think to look. Not when there were countless tropical islands and archipelagos, the vast continents of Asia and Africa, America and the endless ways to change your name and start a new life on a search of land in a town whose name was merely the sound of wind passing through the trees. Or buried among the millions in a big city, a face among too many, literally lost in a crowd. With all of that, why would he think they were still in Europe? Where his influence was strongest in the underworlds of England and France? Denmark, with all its islands, its harmony and tranquility, likely escaped his notice entirely. 

The afternoon sun glittered on the water and he drew in a breath, closing his eyes and turning away abruptly, deciding he was done sightseeing. The brightness made his head throb even more. Beauty did hurt.

Harry was in the driver’s seat, Alene up with him, giving Q room to lie down in the back and he took that opportunity, moving his laptop bag to act as a pillow, shielding his eyes with his jacket. His moving around drew the attention of the vehicle’s other occupants and he thought Harry said something that sounded like “not much further.” 

As they drove through the forest, Q remembered that he said something to James before they split up. Something about love. 

He panicked for a brief moment, afraid that he had accidentally said something he didn’t mean to, but it came back to him in mere moments. Lovelace. Q told James to give Aegis to Lovelace. So she could burn it.

It wasn’t truly anybody’s choice, he knew, but if it was up to him, he would drill a hole through it and ensure that no one could abuse its abilities, whatever they were. He was in the dark about its capabilities ever since he learned of its existence, and somehow he felt that he was heading toward answers. 

_ I never imagined this would be what field work led to,  _ Q thought with mild amusement. The quip did little to calm his nerves.

At least five more minutes passed before the car stopped in front of a secluded residence in the middle of a good sized plot of land, surrounded by trees and the waters of the fjord. It was a large house, two stories of smooth white walls, the architecture very geometric and aesthetically appealing. There was a white stone porch with a partial screen made of gray slats by a gravel garden, potted perennials lining the walkway from the driveway. A second smaller house was on the same land but a fair distance away. A neighbor, perhaps, or a guest house. He couldn’t be sure. 

“Home sweet home.” Harry announced, looking back at Q who was sitting up, taking in the new surroundings. 

Alene looked concerned, worrying her lip. “Russ, I should warn you about Edgar-”

“You mean he’s  _ here?”   _ His head snapped to face her which was a mistake. Black spots danced violently across his vision and refused to clear for a few seconds. Q could feel his heart climb into his throat, fighting for egress so it wouldn’t dash itself against his ribs like a frantic bird in a cage. He could feel his hands begin to tremble ever so slightly, something he usually didn’t do under stress. But this wasn’t stress, was it? No, it was some bizarre combination of anticipation, elation, and fear. 

Alene didn’t answer for a moment. “Yes. He’s here. But you need to understand the state he’s going to be in once he sees you. Neither of us knew you were even alive. I only found out a week ago and I couldn’t be absolutely sure until we met.”

“What does he think happened to me?” Q asked, his voice somewhat strangled as he fought back a wave of nausea. 

“M told us you died.” she said carefully, eyes flitting away from him. “In the weeks after the funeral. There’s something to be said about his paternal nature. If he knew you were alive, the son of his dead best friend- well, of course he would seek you out. I would have as well. I did. I went to the funeral. There’s the maternity. And that would endanger us and your whole family all over. All of you were being watched as Novak waited for a reason to take all of us out.”

“And Tori?”

“He knows she’s far away.” Alene sighed. “But there was a time when he forgot that.”

“I need to see him,” Q threw off his coat and his fingers worked clumsily at opening the door, but eventually he stumbled out into the afternoon light. Everything rushed to his head, throwing darkness into his eyes once again, but Harry was there to steady him, no doubt used to this happening with Lena. 

Her crutches hit the driveway and she walked over to the two, exchanging a sad look with Harry. “I’ll see if he’s awake. Eames said he had a bit of a nightmare, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave him a sedative.” 

She moved faster than the two of them, waiting for them on the porch of the larger house as Harry stepped at a steady pace to made sure Q didn’t stumble, keeping one hand on his upper arm, the other holding a duffel bag. But he was walking fine now that he was on his feet, he was significantly less disoriented and the shock might have done something to clear his head. 

_ Edgar Marks was inside the house.  _

His legs went weak for a moment but he locked his knees, forcing himself to keep going. Thirteen years. Where had the time gone? Had it gathered up its things and bundled itself into this secluded house in Denmark? Was this where time went? Thirteen years of nightmares, counseling, medication that he forgot to take. There was only a bridge from then to now, and he was walking it. 

Alene leaned against the door and punched in a code on the keypad above the lock before backing away. There was a light beep and the lock disengaged. Harry opened the door and allowed her and Q to enter ahead of him, closing it behind him with a soft click.

He allowed himself to be led through the small foyer into a dark and spacious living room, dark because the curtains were drawn and the lights were off. Q could hardly take it in because a door closed on the opposite end of the house, somewhere near where he presumed the dining room and kitchen to be. Metal jangled and a small form came bounding through the rooms to stop at the feet of the small group. A brown border collie with glistening eyes, tail wagging extremely fast, a leash trailing behind it. 

“Hey, there, Freddie.” Alene crooned, falling down into a sofa and setting the crutches on the coffee table, reaching out to pet the dog who accepted the affections without hesitation, positively beaming at her. He didn’t know dogs could smile so broadly.

Harry chuckled and looked toward where Freddie came from. “All good, Ed?”

Q could only stare, taken aback by the casual domesticity. For a moment he felt like too much of an intruder, walking into someone else’s life. Would Edgar even want to see him? Was he happy here? With Alene and Harry and this dog, all of them forming a surrogate unconventional family? 

He knew he was going to find out the difficult way when he heard the voice.

“I dropped a glove on the garden path!” a man laughed, and the door shut, footsteps sounding on wooden floor. “I was walking with Freddie and he saw your car and took off running back to the house.” 

It took less than a moment for the voice to find its place in Q’s mind, throwing forth a torrent of memories. It hardly sounded different than when he last heard him. The day he came to pick his father up and go to the airfield. 

It was his godfather. It was Edgar Marks. And if it wasn’t, this was a horrible, impossible trick. 

“Oh, Freddie, did you miss us?” Alene scratched behind his ears and Freddie nodded his assent. Q cautiously ventured a tentative hand out and Freddie leapt to him, nudging it with his ears. He couldn’t resist a smile. Freddie acted like his cats. 

“Seen Eames today?” Harry asked, tossing his duffel onto an armchair and moving to the doorway leading into the kitchen, almost as if he was bracing for something. 

A faucet began running and glasses clinked. “She went out grocery shopping not too long ago.” the voice was growing closer and Q couldn’t breathe. He shot a panicked look to Alene and she reached for his hand, clasping it reassuringly. 

“Ed, we found a friend in Paris,” Alene called to him, squeezing Q’s hand as if she was worried he would disappear into thin air or just simply flee. Either was likely. “I think you’d like to meet him.” 

He laughed again, this time only feet away from the doorway. “Lena, you can’t keep on bringing home strays. We’ve been stuck with Harry for so long.” Ever the joker. 

Harry chuckled. 

And then there he was. 

He couldn’t have been much taller than Q. Ed always said he would outgrow him but it seemed he’d come up just a bit short. Wavy ginger hair, slightly more blonde than he recalled. Perhaps that was time, or the remnants of an alternation. Freckles that he used to count as a child. He was thin. Stout as a rake. And that was Q talking. 

A long, tweed coat hung from his narrow frame, but it seemed to fit him well. Plaid scarf that he was unwinding as he walked, a pair of gloves hanging out of his pocket. His cheeks were still colored pink from the cold air outside. Eyes bright, pale, and playful. 

The only real thing that distinguished him from the Edgar Marks he knew was the band of silver struck across his hairline like a shooting star. A constant reminder of a trauma that couldn’t be escaped. 

He saw Harry first and confusion flashed across his smiling face, perhaps wondering why the man was just standing there. Then he looked to Alene. 

Then his eyes travelled up to Q. 

“Who-” he turned to Harry for an answer, then looked back to Q, his eyes tightening, mouth working without any sound. The scarf fell to the floor and pooled itself in a pile of plaid. “Why does he-”

“Edgar Allen Marks, meet Icarus Quinn Saoi.” Alene said, her voice lighter than air, releasing Q’s hand. “Again.” 

Edgar stared. “No.”

“Marks, I know this is a shock-” Harry began, about to touch his arm, but Ed pushed him away, taking a step back. 

“He’s not real.”

It felt like a blow to the chest. 

“He’s not real.” Ed repeated, adamant this time, his hands beginning to tremble. He shook his head vigorously, turning to leave the room, but Harry wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back in. Edgar tried to pull himself free and struggled, repeating the same three words over and over again as he fought Harry.  _ He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real.  _ “HE’S NOT REAL.”

But then it changed to two. 

“He  _ died!”   _ Ed spat, eyes wild, and that seemed to hit him all too harshly because he sank to the floor, Harry following him down. His arms were no longer a cage, but an embrace as Edgar broke down, leaning into them, curling his body away from Q. 

“So did you.” Q found himself replying. 

It marked the first time Ed heard his voice in over a decade. Did he even remember it? Remember it as Q remembered his? 

Edgar froze. 

He took it as a yes.

Q glanced at Alene, unsure, and she gave him an encouraging nod.  _ Go on. Keep talking.  _

“We never knew you were alive.” he said, slowly taking a step toward him. “You and Alene. I don’t know how, but we managed. Barely. I didn’t do too well afterward. I haven’t been the same. But I kept living. I went to university. Cambridge, actually. I met my best friend, Arthur, there.”

Q was only feet away. He lowered himself to the floor and sat, removing his glasses. It reduced his vision but it was worth it to show Edgar more of his face. 

“When I first saw him,” Q continued, watching Ed carefully as he slowly sat up against the wall. “I was taken aback. He looks so much like you. Not identical, but the way one resembles their parents. Enough. I think it’s the same hair. You two can never keep it neat.”

He paused, giving Ed a moment to take in his words. 

“You’re doing good,” Alene encouraged. 

“Arthur was just sitting there tuning his cello while this cat roamed around.” Q continued, smiling a bit from the fondness of the memory.  “Do you remember when that kitten followed you around the park and you brought it home to my father? To Remus? Do you remember what we named her?” 

Harry eased away from the man, relaxing. 

Q put his glasses back on and watched as Edgar’s eyes darted to note every part of his features. His unruly dark hair, the moles on his face and neck, the shape of his nose, the small scars on his hands from work, anything and everything as he worked to help his mind believe what he was seeing. It was nothing short of an eternity before anyone spoke. 

“Freya.” Edgar whispered at last. The corner of his mouth twitched into a phantasmal smile. “Her name was Freya.” 

Relief felt like a rush of warmth flooding his veins, consuming every last tendril of dread. 

Ed raised a hesitant hand out to Q, fingers dancing in the air between them as he faltered. Then he dropped it. He looked around the room, the expectant eyes on him, and his focus flitted to the way from which he came. 

“I-” his voice was frail, strained. “I need a moment.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and Q made to help him but Edgar shied away, unwilling to make contact with him just yet. 

And then he left. 

Q kept watching the empty space where he once was and then cleared his throat, feeling the burning in his head migrate to his eyes as he blinked back tears. It felt like losing him again. Suddenly he wasn’t a thirty year old man, he was a child on the verge of adulthood who lost too much of his family too soon. M made a remark to Bond once which he shared with Q, thinking it would be amusing given his knowledge of James’ past. But it stung instead. Burned like acid.

_ “Orphans make the best recruits.” _

Did she  _ know?  _ Before, he meant. Before MI6 came knocking on his door with a warrant for his laptop and arrest. Back when he was a university student too good with computers for the professors to keep up, so much so that he had taken to testing himself. Why not hack them? See how long it would take to get kicked out, how much he could see, like jumping to look over a fence and getting told off for it. There would be information about his father in those files. Something no one told anyone, perhaps. 

Oh, but he was Icarus Quinn Saoi. The boy with the odd name and mechanical pieces in his trouser pockets. No one else with that artisanal name, the one that sent him reeling, retreating behind a slew of nicknames just to regain a modicum of normalcy. Russ. Quinn. Q. 

_ She knew.  _

But he wasn’t truly an orphan, was he? Edgar was nearly his father, not by blood, but in title. Q had a father this whole time, tucked away in a secluded house in Northern Europe. 

He would have chased after Edgar if he could but the splintering headache was becoming merciless and he wanted to scream, not from the pain, but from the frustration, confusion, and sheer overwhelming nature of it all. 

When was the last time he’d been this emotional before the past week? Before Novak’s hellscape in the elevator, before James returned? 

Everything changed the moment he walked through those doors. 

But maybe it was meant to. Change was inevitable, dashing itself against the cliffs of time, making what marks it could. 

He understood why Edgar ran. 

It was all so bloody terrifying to think about.

Q wiped at his eyes, attempting to recover a sliver of the professional persona he was so used to embodying. “What does he have?” 

Freddie padded over and plopped down beside Harry who finally disconnected the leash. Alene sighed and rubbed her neck. Twice. Three times. A stress response. 

“His PTSD was fairly severe for the first few years,” she answered, closing her eyes. Fatigue seemed to wear down her features, showing her age. “But he does better now. Freddie’s an emotional support animal. Eames, our current personal protection officer, used to have to accompany Ed on his walks when he started using them to cope because- for lack of decorum, no one trusted him on his own. His depression is in remission and he’s on proper medication, but nothing seems to stop the nightmares when they come.”

PTSD. He didn’t doubt it. And it certainly accounted for Edgar’s response to Q’s presence. Fight or flight. Fight against Harry, fight the idea that conflicted with the belief he held for so long. Flee from it. 

“You said Eames is your current PPO?” Q asked, turning around carefully so he could address Alene. “What happened to the one before them?”

“I married him.” Alene smiled at Harry. 

Oh.

“Is that why you’re no longer the officer?” he couldn’t help asking, wanting something else to talk about, something much less distressing. “It’s too personal?”

Harry winced, and Q immediately realized he’d stepped on a sensitive subject, and now the other man was having to walk over the sharp pieces. He opened his mouth to apologize but Wistaff waved it aside. “No, it’s fine, you should know. I, ah, I was the officer on duty when the first safehouse was discovered. I made a stupid mistake, I was followed back, and we were ambushed. Thankfully there were other officers to assist in the evacuation and relocation, but it was my fault. I let my guard down and I’ll spend every second making up for it because it can’t happen again.” 

Alene shook her head. “It’s as much my fault as yours then.”

“No, it was my idea to get rings.” Harry protested, sounding like this was a debate they’d had many times before. “You said we didn’t need them and I should have listened.” 

Lena said nothing. Because there was nothing to say.

Instead, she tossed one of her crutches to Q and it landed on the floor beside his knee. 

“Ed likes to wander down the shoreline.” she nodded, indicating she expected him to go. He used the crutch to stand and was immediately grateful for its presence as the room swayed around him. “He’ll have calmed down enough by now.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

“Then try not to scare him off.”

—

Wistaff lent him a warmer coat and held the back door for him, letting Q venture out into the expansive stretch of land that ended where the fjord waters began. Boxed in gardens that must have been flush with growth and abundance in the warmer months, now barren. Perennials and winter flowers, however, seemed untouched by the cold. It wasn’t winter yet, but it hadn’t seemed to have received notice. 

He followed the worn footpath through the garden, averting his eyes from the setting sun as he ambled along through a sparse section of forest along the edge of the fjord, spotting a figure sitting on a fallen tree.

Edgar must have heard Q approach because he glanced over his shoulder to see him. 

Wordlessly, Q sat next to him on the tree, giving ample space between them, but enough to be close. 

“You don’t look like you used to.” Edgar said quietly. There was something distant about his voice, not entirely returned to him after what happened in the house. 

Q smiled nervously, pulling the coat tighter around himself as a cool wind danced across the water toward the shore. “It’s been thirteen years, Ed. I got older.”

He shook his head. His hands twisted. “It’s more than that.”

“Can you… elaborate?”

“Your eyes are sad,” Edgar spoke softly, the cool wind off the fjord carding gently through his hair. Q hadn’t forgotten the fascination he had as a child of how his hair seemed to light up like a renewed ember in the sun. A golden halo for a man he always knew could do no wrong. And he never did. He was a good man. A man he believed to be dead for over a decade. “You used to look happier.”

“I used to  _ be  _ happier.” Q responded. It felt odd, talking. To him. It was like when his father took him to the cemetery to speak to his mother’s headstone. To visit and tell her how his life was going. It was confusing at first. Then, it was depressing. Then, when he was old enough to understand, it was uncomfortable. She could never hear them. Not really. The symbolism of it went over his head. That was what this felt like. Speaking to someone deceased. 

He realized it was mutual. They were ghosts by the water, rejoining the living in the eyes of the other. 

“Fair enough.” Ed murmured, picking at the hem of his sleeve, a small, rogue piece of thread sticking out. His hand went rigid and he forced it into his pocket, stopping the action. A habit he was hoping to break, it seemed. For the sake of his sleeves. He looked up at Q and his face softened. “You’re real. None of the others have ever followed me out here.”

“Others?”

“The hallucinations,” Edgar waved his hands vaguely. “Phantasms, memories, they all stop once I’m out here. Between the nightmares, the screaming, the mirrors, I just- I just can’t breathe in that house sometimes.”

“I know the feeling.” Q tried for a smile, producing little more than a slightly tilted grimace. He couldn’t prevent himself from imagining what it must have been like for him, not being able to trust his own eyes, his own mind, as ghosts stole his sleep, his peace of mind, like magpies after trinkets. 

He wanted to drag M back from the dead and hold Ed in front of her as evidence of one of her misdeeds.  _ See? See what you’ve done? _

It wasn’t entirely her fault. She did what she had to in order to save lives. Q’s life, for one. Novak found him once as a child, threatened his father. He wouldn’t hesitate to take his life. 

Instead, he let Q suffer. Suffer and live knowing that he lost almost everything. A fate worse than death. Ransom didn’t have to do anything. M created his perfect endgame. A situation where he didn’t have to dirty himself with unnecessary death. He could sit back and watch them all crumble. Tear themselves apart.

That must have been what made the lie so believable. That Q was dead. Edgar was no stranger to his grief. Their suffering was shared, but not equal. 

“Freddie seems nice.” was what he ended up saying rather than releasing the morose onslaught of thoughts. 

Edgar smiled. “I named him after Alfred Hitchcock. Tori and I used to love watching his films.” Then the smile dimmed. “How- How is she?” 

“She’s good.” Q nodded, trying to recall the last time he even saw her that wasn’t a drop in between flights to digs and lectures and projects set in who-knows-where. They stayed in contact fairly well, what with calls and postcards and the like, but there was a certain sadness with each visit that they could never erase. They were the remnants of a family wobbling on its last legs. “At least she seems good. She’s been keeping busy, that’s for sure.” 

“I know,” Edgar seemed pleased as punch and Q couldn’t help but give in to that infectious smile of his. “I’ve been reading her articles in science journals, collecting them on my desk.” 

“Do you know she never married again?” Q asked, holding on to a wan smile for his sake. Since his comment on his sad appearance he’d been trying to do the opposite, despite how it made his face hurt. “Never dated, never had kids. You were the one for her and she’s content with that. Always has been.” 

Edgar stared silently, processing the words. “That’s- I- I’m glad to hear that. I- I never doubted how much she loved me but I guess I never thought about that. I’m dead in her world and she’s untouchable in mine and I just never believed we’d get the chance to collide again. Maybe she’d find someone else.” He cleared his throat. “Siobhan?”

“Married a wonderful woman named Jodie and they have two children.” Q said. He chuckled a bit, recalling the incorrigible antics of his ‘niece’ and ‘nephew’. He was their cousin but twenty years older. ‘Uncle’ was fitting. “Nathan’s ten and Isobel is seven come January.”

He took a moment to absorb the information before continuing. “How about you, Russ? How are things in your life?” 

“Busy.” he replied easily, smiling sheepishly now. “I- ah- took up my father’s mantle. I’m the quartermaster. At Six.” 

His eyes went round. “No kidding. How did you do that after everything?” 

“It just felt right, I suppose.” Q shrugged, noncommittal. “And it was either that or be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” 

“My death gets faked and you become a hardened criminal?” Ed put a hand to his forehead and swooned comedically. “Oh, what a world!” 

Q laughed. 

“In all seriousness though,” Edgar leaned in with interest. “Your not work life. I’m a dreadful gossip- actually that’s a lie- but I need to know things! Girlfriend, boyfriend, significant other! Kids! Cats! What is outside of dreadful MI6 for Russ Saoi?”

“Two cats that are basically children and a slightly messy flat.” Q admitted, shrugging once again. He felt a slight pang at the reminder of his failed attempt at even addressing the possibility of a relationship. And how it was very much doomed to fail from the beginning. “Arthur’s the closest friend I’ll ever have and he’s basically family at this point. Eve, Cas, and Lo- Augusta,  are coworkers but we’re all good friends. And James-” he faltered, unsure of how to continue that sentence. “James is James.”

“I think I need to have a fatherly talk with this James character.” 

“Absolutely not.” Q shook his head, mortified, but Ed was laughing. 

“What happened to your head?” Edgar inquired, looking far too concerned. “Hell of a way to get a haircut.” 

Q instinctively reached up to touch the gauze and caught himself. “I got shot.” 

Ed raised an eyebrow. “How did that happen?”

He hesitated to answer. “Novak.”

At the name, Edgar seemed to retreat again, closing himself off, but there was no house to run out of this time. 

The change was disconcerting. After the minutes they spent talking and laughing, the amount of normalcy they constructed, it all came tumbling after that cursed name. 

Q wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, and Edgar didn’t hesitate to reciprocate, clutching him tight, hands clutching the material of the borrowed coat as if the slightest wind would whisk him away and he’d be left holding nothing but memories and empty hopes once again. Latching onto him like a lifeline. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Ed shook his head against his. “This war won’t end.”

War. That was certainly what it was. Ransom Novak’s silent reign of terror that spanned decades across two centuries, across continents, infecting and corrupting, all to support his militarized bids for power. A war that was coming to their doorstep as he sought to eliminate every member of the legacy that stood against him. He made Blofeld his pawn, Swann his knight, and neither knew. Blofeld and Swann were too singular, too focused on their own greed and wrath. Blinded. The first to fall. 

He couldn’t even remember the antebellum. The time before the war. Where was the time of mild peace when James Bond came back after every mission? When Q could trust that each glimpse of someone wasn’t the last he’d ever get? When there wasn’t heartbreak and loss at every corner? 

Every war has to end somehow. This one just wouldn’t be a quiet one. 

“It will end.” Q vowed under his breath, close enough for his godfather to hear. “Soon. Because we’re bringing you home. We’ve all lost too much time. Novak can’t take another second of it.” 

The sun embraced the horizon and he could see the celestial curtains begin to close. The end of the day. 

The end of an era. 

And a new one stirring. 


	16. Old Fashioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the dream scene (shown in italics) I’d recommend listening to ‘Benny Goodman’ by Saint Motel just to kind of get the vibe of it (that’s what I listened to as I wrote it)

James and Cas were comfortably situated in the first class cabin of a consumer flight, far removed from the screaming children and bickering couples. The whole of the cabin had been booked out so they could speak freely without the fear of prying eyes and ears. After the revelations brought forth by Ives, it was no longer safe to continue using Six’s planes. Not if Novak could track them or Holmes could glean what was going on. 

He found it odd that Novak volunteered the fact that Sceptre had a mole planted in MI6. He claimed it was to cause discord, but that statement would cause them to look for one. And searches yield results. Did he really expect them to come to an erroneous conclusion? Burn Holt at the stake for the circumstantial suspicions after her abduction? Turn against Q, someone Ransom alluded to as having a multitude of unshared secrets. But of course he had secrets. James had his fair share as well. The only difference was that Q’s were being dragged out into the light by this whole ordeal. His destroyed family slowly being pieced back together. Novak claiming Q was in love with James. His personal life was gutted, skinned, and displayed like a spoil of war by that sociopath. 

Eve volunteered to conduct Ives’ interrogation. Due to her inactivity in the field she decided to undergo psych training before she made the separation permanent. It didn’t seem wise, seeing as how she appeared quite keen on annihilating him, like Bastet and Apophis. Except this was Bastet against an unarmed garden snake while she was clad with talons and a strong sense of vengeance. No one had much sympathy for Ives, though, so that must have been why it was allowed to go forth. 

James wasn’t sure what it was about him. Yes, he disliked him immensely when they first met but now…it felt close to pity. He was still a bastard, but an unfortunate one. And immensely confusing. He made sure to fill Cas in on the details of Ives’ brief confession before they got to the airport and her lip curled. She vocalized that she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. He pointed out that she could likely throw him a fair distance with her strength. Cas pinched him after that but smiled at the underlying compliment. 

M wouldn’t clear Arthur to go into the field. Either he decided the doctor had more practical purpose being with the wounded in the infirmary or he didn’t want a repeat of what happened last time he allowed someone unqualified to galavant around with both 007s. 

Someone was going to have to fix the nomenclature. 

Dr. Descartes did, however, take Bond aside and copy down the information given by Ives. They set up a rendezvous should he be able to escape the prying eyes of their minister long enough to catch a flight. 

“I know that I’ve no right to ask this of you considering that I’ve been little more than a right foul git as of late-” Arthur began, but James cut him off with a slight shake of his head. 

“Just ask.” 

Arthur sighed, picking at one of the buttons of his waistcoat before tucking his hands in his pockets and looking him straight in the face. “Bring him home safe. Him and the others. Whatever it takes.”

“I will.” James held his hand out and it took the other man a moment to realize it. He shook it firmly, relief breaching the exhaustion that encompassed him. “Is there anything else?” 

“You.” Arthur said. “Come back in one piece.”

“I never knew you cared.” He raised an eyebrow, meaning to tease him to relieve any tension. 

R laughed in spite of himself. “Don’t go getting any ridiculous ideas. He’s the one that cares.” 

Neither one even had to mention his name. Q. They were his silent sentinels, always a step behind him should he fall.

James had been failing at that post lately. Failing miserably. 

“So what do you have planned after we locate them?” Cas asked, swirling the beverage in her glass by rotating the glass in hypnotizing circles. She’d long since changed out of her borrowed clothes and had them stowed in her carry on to return to Alene. It was such an absurdly mundane act for an espionage agent that Bond wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. In fact, he still had no idea what to make of  _ her.  _

Of course he trusted her at this point. And Holland and Wistaff. Wistaffs. Dutch. Whichever. His litmus test had always consisted of his gut feelings for as long as he could remember and what it was telling him was that they were all on the same side. And most importantly, Q trusted them. Holt was his friend. Alene was… whatever she was to him. A walking memory, a living answer. Something tangible in this game of smoke and mirrors. 

James sighed and dragged a hand down his face. The cabin lights dimmed for those that wanted an hour or two of shut eye before landing and a soft blue light shone from under their seats onto the turpentine aisleway. 

“Finish the mission,” he said, closing his eyes, remembering, but not vocalizing the promises he made Descartes. “See if he can resolve this issue of that bloody flash drive. Get whatever leads we can from Ives or use Aegis to track their location. Bring the war to them before they catch us off guard.” 

“Surprisingly practical.” she sounded impressed, but also mildly disappointed. Holt was no doubt expecting something straight from the stories she was supplied with during her training, as all the other newcomers were. James Bond who made his own rules, who felt before he thought, impulsive and instinctive, but never missed a beat all the while. 

So where was that? Driving planes through lofts and shooting down helicopters? Seducing leads, prying the information from them with liquor and a commitment that never extended beyond the light of dawn and closed doors. Where was the old-fashioned spy, the relic of a dying era? He was still there, but he had changed. He wasn’t sure when or even how, but he saw it clearly now. The difference between who he used to be and what he was now. He’d seen this change before when he was with Vesper Lynd. The transition into something more ordinary, more cosmopolitan. More befitting the situation. In this case, the new age. 

C was the personification of that new age with his opulent headquarters and billions of dollars worth of the latest technology and whatever was beyond that, as if the pockets of Spectre and Sceptre had persuaded the course of time to pave a more efficient road for them. Gone was the time of martinis and bow ties. In with the mainframes and computers. MI6 still attempted to bridge the gap between the two, but it was thinning. At least in his eyes. He was feeling less at home in his ways, despite them being all he knew. Perhaps it was time for him to change. Not for the job, but for himself. 

Perhaps then, he could allow himself to keep dreaming about what was interrupted with Madeleine. 

It wasn’t her he was in love with. Stepping away from it all and looking through fresh eyes provided insight that he was willfully blind to all that time. Had he ever truly been in love with her? Or was it the idea? The opportunity? Someone who came along at the right time, when things were falling apart, there to patch up the pieces and drag him away from the never ending fight. Give James a life he saw from the other side of the glass. Quiet mornings. Scars that would stop multiplying. Something to look forward to other than a cheque and a target. Maybe not a white picket fence, but something. Someone. 

She was beautiful and smart. Clever. But those weren’t attributes. Those were weapons. Like Ives with his piercing eyes, sharp features, and shrewdness. All honed by the same kind of people for the same purpose. 

And then there was Q. 

Q was someone that James never thought to consider simply because it seemed so unlikely. He was everything that Bond respected and admired in a person. He somehow manifested the tenacity, boldness, nervousness, intelligence, and kindness that would have been the most unimaginable variety of paradox had they collided with James. Yet time and time again that was what happened. Not with Q, but the others. Vesper, Swann, the odd people he chatted up in pubs in a different life. If James were to ask the question “where have you been all my life” the answer would be behind a cluttered desk in a sublevel laboratory. 

The comparisons were unjust. He was nothing like those people, residing in a category solely on his own. He was too good. Too innocent. Too breakable by the everpresent gales of misfortune in James’s life. 

_ Not him.  _ His mind would say.  _ You can’t let that happen to him.  _

Those rare moments where he denied the hedonism churning like a choppy sea within him and put someone else’s well-being first happened then. It happened in the moments he had to pry Q from his desk and bundle him into a cab, making sure he got home safe. Walking him to the front door but never crossing it. Taking him to tea or curry when he was looking too peaky, laughing and talking, but never letting himself go too far. Without fully knowing it he’d built up a safety gate around Q, but for himself. Much like the barriers in front of art in museums and galleries.  _ You can get close, close as you like, so long as you do not cross this line.  _ James was protecting what was beautiful, same as them.

But he was not content with observing from afar. He got close, against his better judgement. Close enough to satisfy his need for a connection with him, far enough to protect him from the disasters that came with becoming a part of his life. But Q’s boundaries were different than his. James got close enough for him to fall in love with him. To mourn his absence and sacrifice his health in misguided attempts to bring him home and keep him safe. Perhaps too aware of the futility but not caring because while James had too high of a regard for his safety, Q could care very little. Not where Bond was concerned. 

That was why James was not alone when he woke up after surgery. Why Q occupied the cot beside his. 

The man cared too much. Same as Bond. They just showed it in vastly contrasting ways. Q with being too close to the sun, burning up. James too far from it, slowly freezing in his self induced deprivation. 

There had to be a way to meet in the middle. An equilibrium where they could both survive with each other rather than perish without. He was Tantalus, doomed to long for what he couldn’t have. 

Bond couldn’t be his protector any more. Not in the metaphoric sense. He had always been afraid that his world would reach Q. The people that came after him, hurt the ones he loved, making them collateral damage. But with Sceptre and Ransom Novak… Q had been exposed to that world long before James tried to keep it from hurting him. There was no need for the distance. Not anymore. Not when this ended. Because James… he could leave. He could leave again once he helped clean up the mess he was a part of and take Q with him. A second attempt at a new life, but with the right person. 

Something to think about. 

Later. 

But it was these thoughts that sealed his eyes shut and allowed the temptress of sleep to coax him into its all encompassing embrace. 

And into chaos. 

-

_ James dreamt he was in a club.  _

_ Not the modern kind with copious amounts of alcohol, strobe lights, and pop music blaring, but the kind from a time long gone. Where jazz and swing filled the atmosphere of the establishment plucked straight from the former century. Where the women wore skirts that flew around them like flower petals in a summer storm and the men shucked off their hats, dressed down in suit jackets or shirtsleeves and suspenders, their polished Oxfords clicking against the hard floor.  _

_ The ceilings ran high with fluted columns placed along crimson curtained niches in the walls, a balcony running around the perimeter of the room, lights shining from the base of it at even intervals. A marvelously opulent chandelier hung from the seemingly never ending ceiling, the chain disappearing into the fog that obscured the sight above them. Clouds, shielding the heavens from the eyes of mortals. The crystals reflected the lights of the bulbs affixed to it, swaying idly off time with the music. Gaslights in ornate sconces added to the celestial glow present in the large, impossible space.  _

_ It certainly seemed dreamlike, the atmosphere. But the kind that felt vividly real, wondrously so. A vibrancy that spoke of life and action, a whirlpool of revels sweeping everyone away. A saxophone’s trumpeting gave way to the dulcet, haunting tones of a cello, bow gliding across the strings with expertise. The song flooded the air and brought the people to life, flinging them around like puppets in a merry dance.  _

_ Remus Saoi was dancing with Alene Holland, the latter moving freely, unaided by any form of crutches or braces. Her sapphire blue dress rippled as they waltzed, like the furthest part of the ocean and her hair was dark, rather than her natural blonde, pinned up with a pearlesque comb. James realized through the slight confusion that accompanied entering a dream that she looked how he imagined Q’s mother to have been. Where he had the time or thought to imagine her, he had no clue.  _

_ Arthur Descartes was the one playing the cello, sitting on a chair in the slightly raised floor space allocated to serve as the stage, his copper hair gleaming in the golden light as his movements were dictated by the melody produced by the instrument that stood between his feet. His lips moved with silent song, lyrics gone unheard, drowned out by the hidden players that accompanied his music. Augusta Reilly was close by in a high waisted vintage dress, a cream coloured shawl draped over her shoulders.  She had one hand on Arthur’s shoulder, the other holding a glass.  _

_ She smiled down at him and he spared a moment to return the favour.  _

_ Edgar Marks looked the same as he had in the photo James saw of him in the debriefing. He danced with a woman Bond met once, a woman who he knew to be named Victoria. Tori. Edgar’s wife. Q introduced them one day when she came by the Branch. Her face was preserved in his memory, her blonde hair that fell around her shoulders in waves, those brilliant blue eyes that held wisdom and sorrow now alight with joy as a smile stretched across her features. Ed’s happiness positively radiated from him as they spun around each other, hands brushing, feet expertly avoiding the other’s, the couple perfectly synchronized with their partner.  _

_ Siobhan Saoi, Q’s aunt, danced with her wife, Jodie, the two surrounded by colliding waves of emerald and gold, painting the personification of sun through the trees, earth and light.  _

_ The former M, Olivia Mansfield, moved in a slow waltz with her husband, but they slowly began to fade from his view, disappearing into nothing.  _

_ He looked down at himself and saw he was clad in a neat suit and silk bow tie, an ensemble he was rather familiar with.  _

_ Laughter drew his attention to the side where a drinks table stood, Cas, Eve, Tanner, and M nearby. Talking and smiling, all dressed impeccably in era appropriate clothing.  _

_ “What’s the occasion?” Madeleine Swann’s accented voice asked. She appeared beside him in the same sky blue dress she wore on the train in Morocco, same hairstyle, same shade of lipstick. The diamonds in her ears rivaled the shine of her eyes.  _

_ He frowned. “What do you mean?” _

_ She gestured a slender arm to the scene before them, the music, the dancing. “This is your party, James. It’s all in your mind. The things you know and the things you notice, all in one place.” _

_ “Then why are you here?” James questioned, accepting a martini from a passing waiter. “I don’t know you. Not as I thought.” _

_ Swann held her hand out in surrender. “I am not hiding. You know the real me and this is it. Your enemy. Judith to your Holofernes.” _

_ He had to laugh at that. “You think you can compare yourself to Judith?”  _

_ She shrugged, smooth shoulders rolling forward. “Perhaps we are both Judith in our own minds. Both sides believe they are the righteous one. There is no correct answer. We just behead the opposition and carry on to the next.” _

_ “There is a correct answer,” he replied coolly. The drink disappeared from his hand. “You, Blofeld, and Novak are criminals and murderers.” _

_ “As are you.”  _

_ “That’s different.” _

_ “Is it though?” She tilted her head, observing him keenly. “Have you ever asked yourself if what you do is right?” _

_ “I know it is.” James shot back, even though the answer was ‘yes’. “Have you?” _

_ “No.” She said simply. “I know it isn’t. God, you’re so old fashioned. Morals died an age ago.”  _

_ “Maybe in your world. Not in mine.” _

_ “Hm,” her scarlet lips curved into a catty smile. “We’ll see how that holds out once those worlds intersect. I wonder how this all feels to you. Last time you were pulling others into your fight. Now it’s the opposite. This is the quartermaster’s struggle become yours. Blofeld for you, Novak for him. Is it strange? With the family that you hardly knew of? New faces, new names, throwing a wrench into the familiarity of your system? This is how it was for them. Now you feel it.”  _

_ A beat of silence between the two, sounds coming from everywhere else.  _

_ Swann touched his arm to seize his attention. “Will you dance with me?”  _

_ He looked away from her, expression cold. “No.” _

_ “How about with me?” the voice changed.  _

_ James turned back to Madeleine Swann and saw Vesper Lynd standing in her place. A mauve gown wrapped around her in drapes of chiffon, pinned with brooches at her shoulders in the fashion of a Greek chiton. Her obsidian hair was done up, green eyes fixed on him, wry smile maddening enough to kill.  _

_ “Come on, James,” she coaxed, holding her hand out to him, silver bangles hanging from her wrist. “Dance with me.”  _

_ Then she was Lucia Sciarra, still in widow’s black. “Dance with me.” before turning back into Lynd. _

_ Then Vesper’s face twitched and bled away into static before being replaced with Swann’s again. Her body shifted back into that of Madeleine.  _

_ James took a step back, rattled. “What the hell was that.”  _

_ “Me proving  a point.” Madeleine purred. “All your women are so interchangeable. It’s like you replace one cog with another. Beauty and intelligence, that’s what does it for you. And he certainly has that, doesn’t he?”  _

_ “Who-” he hardly began to ask before ‘he’ appeared. Across the room on the musician’s platform, being dragged off by Cas who was forcing him to loosen up and dance with her, both chuckling as she positioned herself to lead, his lanky form attempting to follow clumsily. _

_ He was in a button down and suspenders, wearing his trademark spectacles and patterned trousers. From a distance and with the lightning his hair looked like waves carved from finished mahogany, combed neatly in a rare attempt to appear presentable. Even dressed down he was still utterly immaculate. Gone was his usual nervous energy, replaced with carefree whimsy as he spun Cas around and she clapped him on the shoulder, grinning at him finally catching on to the dance. _

_ It was rare to see him in that state, something James was able to learn how to pry out of him often back then. Walking through London as the city awakened with the rising sun, the two escaping the clutches of the terrors the night held, both of them unable to return home at nights, after missions that were too harrowing. Close calls that were too close. Nerves to agitated for sleep. Afternoon cafe runs as Q attempted to find substitutes for alcohol for James. Times when they were just content to sit near the other, Q fiddling with odd ends at his desk, James on the folding couch, sprawled out after an exhausting training session. He used to think of it as symbiosis. They each benefited from the other’s existence. But after James left it was as if Q had changed the locks on him. He didn’t know how to get back in. But oh, how he wanted to.  _

_ Even in the dream, James could feel the warm knot in his chest slowly unfurl and encompass him, encouraging him forward, but he was suddenly stuck in place, his feet refusing to propel him away from Swann.  _

_ “Oh, he’s different. He certainly checks the boxes but… well, there something else, isn’t there? Something real.” She laughed harshly, tracing a fingernail across his cheekbone as he fought against his immobility. “I think I’ll pay your lovely man a visit.” _

_ “Don’t you dare touch him.” James growled, suddenly able to move. He lunged for her and went right through the woman as if she were completely immaterial, an apparition. James hit the ground hard and groaned as pain lanced in his bad shoulder.  _

_ She cackled and drew away, the hem of her gown sweeping across James as she stepped over him, striding toward Q and Cas. A blade appeared in her hand. _

_ He scrambled to his feet and ran after her, weaving between pairs of dancers, fueled with panic.  _

_ Madeleine was there first. Slashing her blade across Cassandra’s midsection and sending her to the ground with a cry, the agent landing against the foot of the low stage, clutching the material of her dress against her abdomen, stemming the willing flow of blood. She seized Q, holding him in front of her as a shield, one arm wrapped across his chest like a bar, the other looping around to press her blade against the pale skin of his throat. _

_ The music stopped and everyone froze.  _

_ Q made a strangled sound of panic and struggled against her, arching his head back, trying to escape the pressure of the blade.  _

_ Bond held his hands out in front of him as if he was trying to calm a crazed animal, but Swann was nothing close to that. She couldn’t be tamed, she couldn’t be swayed.  _

_ “It’s okay,” James stepped cautiously toward the two, eye locked onto Q’s. “I’ve got you, Q. I’ve got you.” _

_ “No you don’t.” Madeleine sneered, pressing down just enough to draw a prick of blood to the surface, the drop sliding down the surface of the blade. “You don’t have him. You lost him a year ago and you’ve been grasping at spectres. You’re a coward and you don’t deserve him. You can never protect him from pain. You can love him all you want but that will never change the fact that he doesn’t know. You can never protect him from pain because you caused it. Oh, but he knows now, doesn’t he? Just as he’s about to die. Is that what it will take, James? Not a word until the moment it’s too late?”  _

_ He swallowed hard, feeling his heart hammering in the back of his throat and he struggled to breathe, feeling the effects of fear, of dread, for the first time in eons. “You don’t have to do this, Madeleine. You can just let him go.”  _

_ The knife lowered from Q’s neck as Swann laughed, eyes as cold as the frozen pond Bond fell into at his family home. “Let him go? You’re asking a large sacrifice of me, James. He’s your pressure point. Your weakness. I can’t forfeit something so valuable.”  _

_ Her words sounded too similar to what Ives said. Just before James broke his nose for him.  _

_ “I’ll tell you what,” she proposed, an mischievous glint reaching her eyes. “I’m willing to compromise. Break his heart right now and I’ll let him go. Tell him he’s worthless. Idiotic. Unloved. And I’ll spare him.”  _

_ “Is that what you call mercy?” James was infuriated that she would even ask that of him. It was like asking Atlas to shrug, Prometheus to cartwheel. Impossible. There was absolutely no conceivable way he could do it. Looking into Q’s eyes, imagining the words in the air, piercing his mind in lieu of the knife, he felt something wither and decay within him.  _

_ “Of course not.” She purred. The hand holding the knife fell to her side. She was becoming too comfortable. “I call it winning.”  _

_ “Bond,” Cas wheezed, drawing his focus to her. One hand separated from her wound to produce a gun from within the folds of her dress.  _

_ With the last of her strength she slid it across the floor to him and he snatched it up, taking less than a moment to aim, and then fire.  _

_ The knife fell to the floor and stuck there, the handle quivering. Q dropped and James ran to him, pulling him close, his hand drifting to his hair and interweaving itself there. Q clutched at James’s lapel, making them as close as humanly possible. His heart settled back into his usual position, and he was able to breathe once again. He had him. He was safe.  _

_ “You’re okay, Q,” James whispered, running a soothing hand down his back, unsure how in the dream he was so clearly able to feel the nubs of his spine through his shirt. “I’ve got you.”  _

_ A penny sized hole had opened in Swann’s neck where the bullet went through. She stared at James with blatant shock, tears welling in her eyes as a choked gasp escaped her bloodied lips.  _

_ When her body collapsed to the floor it was no longer hers, but that of Taron Ives, the young man gagging as blood filled his throat and lungs. He twitched and seized, face contorted in pain.  _

_ “No…” James said numbly, slowly disconnecting from Q to shed his coat and press it over the wound. Q hurried over and wrapped his svelte fingers around the material covering Taron’s neck, attempting to aid in staunching the flow.  _

_ “You’re going to be okay, Ives.” He promised, but he was shaking, his voice unsteady.  _

_ “I’m a dead man.” Ives rasped, the blood marking a strong contrast against his fair complexion. It seemed impossible for him to be speaking, but that was dreams for you. Real and unreal all at once. He looked between Q and James and relaxed slowly, slumping against the ground. “It’s not your fault. I want to be. I’ve had enough.” _

_ His eyes rolled back in his head and the final words fell from his lips. “Rest now.”  _

_ And he moved no more.  _

_ Q sighed and pulled his bloodied hands away, staring at them wearily. “There’s nothing to do for him. Not now. Not before. It’s time we come to terms with that.”  _

_ His words were true, both for the dream and reality.  _

_ “I’m dreaming.” James said. _

_ Q gave him one of his quicksilver smiles. There and gone. Beautifully ephemeral. “Stating the obvious, are we?”  _

_ The walls shook from an invisible blast that could be heard from outside the room, rattling the doors, sending crystals cascading from the chandelier.  _

_ “That’ll be Novak.” Q sighed. “Pity. I was hoping we’d have more time to talk.”  _

_ “We will once I find you,” James promised. “We’re nearly there.” _

_ “Good.” He nodded. “A talk is definitely in order.” _

_ “Do you think so?” _

_ “No,” He looked to James and smiled wryly. “You think so. This is your mind, your thoughts, your dream. Speaking of which, it’s time to wake up.”  _

The jolt of the plane landing caused him to snap awake, eyes open and watching the windows as light posts alongside the tarmac sped past. A voice came on the overhead system, giving a chipper greeting in Danish. 

“Welcome to Denmark,” Holt said. 


	17. Reichenbach

“Sodium diapenthol,” Ives’ lip curled with distaste as Lovelace approached him with a phial and syringe. “What does it take with you people?”

Ives was currently handcuffed to the table of an interrogation room. When he volunteered his aid this surely was not the treatment he imagined. Nevertheless, he had committed a serious crime, and therefore would be treated as a criminal. He thought himself a messiah. They knew he was no more than a means to an end.

The small room was almost too bright to stand. The fluorescent lightning made the white, cinder block walls glow faintly, and the bulbs reflected off the glass of the large two-way mirror. It made Ives’ pale skin paler, his dark hair and suit darker in comparison. Within the past hour he had changed from thin to skeletal, his high cheekbones no longer sculpted, merely protrusions on his tired face.

Tired. She wasn’t sure she ever saw him look that way. He was always unfairly in optimal condition no matter the circumstance. Robotic. Unreal.

Now it looked as if his humanity was sucking him dry.

“You should be glad we’re not using a greater amount of force.” Moneypenny said coolly, shutting the door behind her. She threw a clipboard onto the table in front of her seat and stared him down, face barren of mercy. “I was about to go looking for a cattle prod.”

“I- Christ!” Taron hissed in pain as Lovelace inserted the tip of the needle into his neck, depressing the plunger.

“Stay still,” she ordered. “Unless you want us to summon father dearest down here.”

He laughed mirthlessly, pulling at his chains. “What is this, then? Stringing me out as bait? That’s not what I agreed to.”

“And that’s not what we’re doing,” Eve agreed, sitting down. “At least not yet. But tell me, would that work?”

Taron looked like he was actually thinking about it. Perhaps it was just the drug talking. “Not from an emotional standpoint. A grain of salt has a greater emotional range than that man. But logistically, yes, if they doubted my loyalty and feared I may say something damning.”

“Have you given them cause to doubt your loyalty before?”

He shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. But he has eyes everywhere, especially today. They’re scoping for the attack. It’s likely he’s even watching this interview if he’s found out about it.”

Interview. That was why she was here. Preliminary psych profile before the real interrogation began.

She hardly caught it but her training allowed her to perceive the sudden shift in Ives’ demeanor. His shoulders tensing, lips pursing, the bob of his throat.

Taron moved a hand toward Lovelace but was hindered by the restraints. Moneypenny reached for her sidearm. Ives gave her a look before facing Lovelace who refused to look at him. “You should go see if Descartes still needs help in the medical wing.”

Lovelace scoffed. “Don’t try to tell me my place. I have work to do downstairs.”

His face twitched.

“Augusta, do you still have those bomb shields?”

She said nothing. He took it as a yes.

“Keep them,” Ives said, placing his hands flat on the table. “And I’m sorry.”

No reply. At least not to him.

“I’ll be down in Q-Branch if anyone needs me.” Lovelace gathered her kit and exited the room, shooting daggers at Ives with her eyes before closing the door. He either didn’t see the piercing look or chose to ignore it.

Eve cleared her throat, suddenly feeling the truth of Taron’s earlier words as the sensation of eyes on her became more prominent. Truth. At least she knew the serum was working. “Can you state your full name for the record?”

“Taron Perceval Ives.”

“And how would you describe your current mental state?”

He took a moment. “Apathetic.”

“Apathy toward what, exactly?” Moneypenny pressed. “Or whom?”

“The outcome,” Ives elaborated. “The outcome of all of this. What happens to me, all of you, all of them. I only want to see them lose. Beyond that… I have no idea.”

“So you don’t hold your own life in high regard.” A statement, an interpretation of his words.

He nodded. “You could say that.”

“Consequently, would you consider yourself a danger to yourself or others?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s out of the realm of possibility,” he replied candidly, his eyes regaining a slight amount of their usual glint of wryness. “Look, Moneypenny, I understand there’s a procedure to follow but I would greatly appreciate it if you just cut to the chase. We’re wasting time. You don’t need to evaluate my mental health because I won’t be alive long enough to even stand at trial. Just let me give you what I can before it’s too late.”

Now there was something out of character. For the briefest of moments, Eve questioned if Lovelace had given him some personality altering concoction rather than truth serum. But she trusted the scientist far too much to doubt her and her precision. This was what Lovelace told her about. The mask he took off when he confessed in her office. The lies were eradicated by the chemical, leaving behind the real Taron Ives. Not a stuck up, cocky, privileged, and condescending tool, but someone that, once upon a time, M knew she could take into her confidence.

Eve owed it to her and to the man that died over years of manipulation from an unloving father to do the same.

She reached into her pocket for a remote and turned off the security camera, leaving the handheld recorder on.

Taron’s shoulders sank in relief. “Thank you.”

“You’d better do more than thank me,” Moneypenny said snidely, folding her arms on the table. “M’s going to string me up for this so make it worth it.”

He nodded and sat back in the stiff metal chair. “The official story on the crash in Germany is that those agents who did not die in the initial explosion or were ejected from the plane perished upon impact, but this is not true. Only agents Vera Thomas and Hugh Macken were directly killed by the hidden bomb. The pilot, Michael Lowden, was the only one who died when the plane crashed. Four agents were still alive.”

Eve felt her breath hitch in her throat. “And one of them was Q’s father. The quartermaster.”

Taron’s hands fidgeted with the handcuffs. “Yes. According to the report given by Akari Hayashi while in hospital, Remus Saoi attempted to land the plane as best he could and was able to remove the other three from the wreckage. He first got their liaison and technical analyst, Alene Holland, out. He stabilized Hayashi next. Restarted Edgar Marks’ heart. He succumbed to his injuries just as the EMTs arrived. Hayashi died days later. Marks coded again in the operating theater but he ultimately survived after resuscitation. Holland was crippled but lived. The two survivors were immediately placed into a safe house while the next of kin related to all of the agents were placed in protective custody with the option of permanent relocation. Bond and Holt are on their way to the current safe house. All of the records on Ransom Novak, Christopher Acerbi, whatever he wants to call himself, they’re all in physical form, and the safehouse is the archive. All investigations ceased to prevent further loss of life after Novak made credible terror threats.”

“And now he’s back.”

“Oh, he never left,” Ives corrected. “He merely operated backstage. Planted the idea of vengeance in Blofeld’s mind, allowed him to be the face of Spectre. I’m sure Blofeld thinks himself the king, the true ruler of his shadow operation, but Novak is the true orchestrator. The puppeteer. Everything I said during the briefing is accurate. His political influence is incredible. These talks of leaving the European Union, the alteration of America’s elections, he’s had a hand in more events than you’d think, and right now he’s amassing resources to begin his bids for power. Think about Conan Doyle’s Professor Moriarty attempting to remove Sherlock Holmes from the equation, obliterating any opposition to his operations. That is why he needs to kill MI6. He has my father to neutralize Five, but M cannot be bought or swayed. We’re all drawing nearer to the Reichenbach Falls. Someone has to go over into the chasm.”

At that moment, an explosion sounded, thunderous and brutal, the room shook slightly and plunged into darkness. The emergency lights flicked on, bathing them in red, reflecting off the two-way mirror in a vaguely demonic manner. Moneypenny stood abruptly, her chair falling to the ground and she stared at Ives who was watching the window with fearful apprehension.

“What just happened?” Eve demanded. She strode over to the door and opened it, finding that the guards who once stood on the other side had vanished.

 _“All security personnel please report to Q-Branch. All able agents will be required to assist in evacuation from the floor and quarantine of the building.”_ Bill Tanner’s voice rang out over the speakers. _“Again, all security personnel must report to Q-Branch immediately. Medical staff will be required to stand by on the floor above”_

_That was their floor._

Eve looked back to Ives who only smiled sadly, shrugging. “I did tell you we were short on time. You know the protocol.”

“Chemical accidents take precedence over any other security issue in order to secure the lab and entry points to ensure there will be no loss of life,” Moneypenny recited with near accuracy, realization dawning on her like a frigid tide rolling in. “Nobody will be able to watch you.” _Because I need to be down in Q-Branch._

“And all excess power is drawn to the basement ventilation and electrical system to begin decontamination.” He added. “Only the offices, hallways, infirmary, and main entry points will have functioning CCTV aside from down there. This room is in complete blackout.”

“They’re coming for you,” Moneypenny drew her weapon, keeping her eyes on the door. “You knew it from the beginning. You-”

He knew it from the beginning.

“Why did you ask Lovelace about the bomb shields?” she demanded, raising her voice above Tanner’s on the speaker as he repeated the previous message.

Taron looked at her. “You know the answer to that.”

Her heart punched her sternum. “That’s why you apologized to Lovelace. You knew, _you bloody knew!”_

“I could only guess.” he admitted. “Something would have to happen down there. Less obvious than shooting down the guards. I did try to keep her out of it. Told her to go to Arthur, didn’t I?”

_Lovelace. God, no. Please, no._

Moneypenny wanted to scream at him, throttle him with her bare hands. But something restrained her and told her not to. It wasn’t his fault. Not entirely. But _he could have said something._

No, he couldn’t have. Not if they were watching at the time.

Ives was living in the literal embodiment of a checkmate. He could never win. Every move was futile. Doomed to lose no matter what.

“Get out of here.” Taron insisted. “I taped a copy of the safehouse address underneath Q’s desk. There’s nothing else I can do for you. If you’re still here, they’ll kill you.”

She held up her gun, throat feeling dry. “Do you need this?”

He shook his head, his blue eyes dark in the dim light. Taron set his jaw, face stiff and emotionless. “I’ll be alright. Just go”

Moneypenny didn’t know what to say.

“Goodbye, Ives,” was what she decided on, tossing him the key to his cuffs and bolting out of the room as fast as she could.

Moneypenny ran to the stairwell, joining the small wave of agents pouring in from the other levels. It was chaos. An unfamiliar face wouldn’t be thought of in the slightest.

The emergency lights weren’t red out there, but normal, giving the appearance of streetlights in the dark.

She pushed through the people and met the security barricade, five agents in protective armour stationed in front of the door to the stairs, as well as the lift, controlling access to Q-Branch. IDs were checked before handfuls of agents were given respirator masks and allowed through. The sound of yelling drew her attention and Moneypenny spun her head to the side and caught a glint of red hair. Looking high above some heads she saw Arthur Descartes caught in a chokehold as he fought to get past one of the guards.

“Hey!” Moneypenny yelled, shoving past a few agents to reach the scuffle. The doctor had escaped the hold only to have his arm twisted behind his back. He hissed in pain and kicked at the armour on the guard’s shin. “R!”

“Eve, thank god!” Arthur spat, struggling to free himself. “Would you kindly tell this neanderthal to unhand me?”

“Medical personnel were redirected to the emergency exit by the courtyard.” the guard said from behind his mask. It was Agent Rohl. “That’s where they’re taking the wounded. Dr. Descartes is attempting to disobey direct orders and unnecessarily endanger his life”

“But they can’t move the criticals until medical stabilizes them!” Arthur snapped. “You’re endangering more lives! How about you quit being a broken record and let me do my job, Rohl?”

“No critical injuries have been reported.”

“Security only knows what a critical injury is if it’s theirs,” Moneypenny retorted. “He’s going down there with me.”

“You don’t have the authority, Agent Moneypenny.” Rohl didn’t budge.

She pressed her gun against his head, feeling herself trembling with anxiety and urgency but hoping it didn’t show. “This is my authority. Let him go, hand us some masks, and stand aside.”

He knew as well as he did that even though the shot wouldn’t puncture the helmet he’d have a hell of a concussion. Self preservation was her friend. Rohl released Arthur and did as Eve said.

“Lovelace is down there.” Moneypenny thought to say before fitting on her respirator, stowing her gun back into the holster.

Arthur’s blue eyes went as wide as lakes and his face paled considerably.

Then, wordlessly, he shoved past her and bolted down the stairs as if his life depended on it, mask dangling from inside his satchel.

She swore violently and ran after him.

Moneypenny wasn’t sure what she expected. More rubble, more fires, maybe. The whole massive basement annihilated. Crumbling walls, shorting circuits, something more dramatic than smoke.

The branch itself looked very much intact, save for one of the testing rooms that ran alongside the firing range. The outer wall it shared with the workshop was obliterated, as well as the inner ones separating it from the other large cubicles, bricks and shattered glass peppering the floor in a disorderly arc. The nearby desks were overturned and smoldering with small flames.

The fans within the vents were humming at full power, drawing out the smoke and pumping in air from outside. Agents were escorting all of the techs into the freight lift, some moving aside debris and work tables to free those that had become trapped.

“LOVELACE!”

She caught sight of Arthur disappearing into the wreckage of the test room and Eve grabbed the nearest agent.

“Did Augusta Reilly get out?”

The agent only shrugged before pulling herself free, guiding a coughing person to the lift.

Eve ran after Arthur, climbing over cinder blocks and bricks, nearly burning herself on a smoking piece of metal that came from the collapsed vent to the room. The ceiling was reinforced enough that it didn’t come crashing down on the heads of whoever was inside. What was once a table was only scraps of melted and shredded metal, beakers shattered, chemicals bubbling on the floor as a fire burned, kept in place by piles of bricks. There was little for it to consume and it was slowly dying.

But among that was something different. Something out of place.

Something she would recognize in an instant.

The remnants of an explosive device.

Arthur threw his bag aside and unbuttoned his waistcoat, wrapping it around his face so he could slightly breathe, his glasses the only things protecting his eyes. Eve hurried beside him to see what had gotten him so frantic and felt her heart skip a beat.

Somehow he saw it from outside, but she was only noticing it now. The oblong piece of black metal with a rectangular window of bulletproof glass almost buried under the collapsed walls. And through the glass, Eve could see hair. A face.

“Christ, Christ, no, no, no,” Arthur was muttered as he tore aside brick after brick, attempting to clear away the rubble. Moneypenny quickly began to do the same, noting how his fingers were bleeding from scratching against the stones with such manic intensity.  “Come on Lovelace, come on.”

This wasn’t an experiment gone wrong. Not like everyone likely thought. This was a bomb, cleverly concealed or planted recently. Just like on the plane. They were meant to look like an accidents up until the moment they didn’t.

She could feel the heat of tears pressing against her eyes as panic swelled inside of her. Were they too late? Was there ever a chance?

And then Eve’s fingers reached the edge of the shield and she lifted it upward like the lid of a coffin, throwing it aside and shaking her hands rapidly, the tips burning from the hot metal.

Arthur let out a broken sob and wrapped his arms around Lovelace, dragging her out from where she’d been buried. He positioned her so she sat with her back against his chest, head secure in the crook of his neck and he fixed the respirator he was meant to use on Dr. Reilly’s face.

Moneypenny felt out of place as she watched Arthur check for her pulse, shoulders sagging in relief when he found what he was looking for. But she felt like she could finally breathe again once Lovelace lurched forward, coughing violently, hands flying to the mask on her face.

“Are you hurt?” Arthur asked, searching her for any obvious signs of injury. Her hairline was matted with a small amount of blood but aside from a few other scrapes she was relatively unharmed.

Moneypenny didn’t want to imagine the state they would have found her in if she didn’t have the shield to protect her. Even with that, if they hadn’t reached her she would have suffocated under there.

“There was an explosive strapped under the table,” Lovelace gasped, hugging Arthur’s arm to her chest. “I saw one of the circuits short. Grabbed the bomb shield. Ives-”

She started coughing again and Eve took that as their cue to leave. She grabbed Arthur’s bag and he helped Lovelace to her feet, half carrying her out into the workshop and toward the lift.

But Augusta had reminded her.

Ives.

Moneypenny rushed into Q’s office and weaves around tables of clutter and cases of finished weapons, dropping to her knees and running her hand along the underside of the desk, searching for the hidden address.

Nothing.

Her stomach sank before she thought to go back out into the workshop where his second desk sat. It was largely untouched by the explosion, the force of the blast only enough to knock over pen cups and stacks of notebooks when it reached that far. The last time she was there, Q collapsed at her feet.

With an uncomfortable sense of deja vu, Eve crouched down and searched under the desk, finally discovering a post it note taped in the centre, just as Ives promised.

Two rows of numbers, latitude and longitude. Then, written below them in the same neat handwriting: Vejle, Denmark.

There was a short list of names following it. Helena Morrow (A.H), Edward Lynch (E.M), Harry Stellmacher/Wistaff, Joanna Eames, William Rowan Brennan.

She shoved the paper into her pocket and made her way back to the stairs she descended from, pushing past a disgruntled Rohl as she handed her respirator back, breathing in the cleaner air of the hallway. The emergency lights flicked off and the normal banks turned back on. Moneypenny blinked the spots out of her eyes as she hurried through the sublevel corridors and back to the interrogation room she left Ives in.

The door was wide open.

He was gone.

The handcuffs hadn’t even been left behind, but the key was gone. Ives’ new captors must have decided to keep them on him. There was nothing. No blood, no sign of a struggle, nothing.

A small voice in her head suggested that he freed himself, that he had run, fled, and was hiding somewhere.

But the cuffs would be there then.

And he didn’t seem like he wanted to run. Taron appeared oddly content with the whole situation. It was going exactly as he thought and instead of fighting the tide he decided to ride with it, no matter where it took him.

Her rush of adrenaline was fading and Eve collapsed into his chair since it was the only one upright. She rested her head on the table and sighed, feeling her blood rush past her ears, extremities buzzing, head spinning.

It was then that she saw them. The words scratched into the table from the key.

_Goodbye, E.M. Find them._

Then, further away.

_Told you someone has to fall._

Moneypenny closed her eyes and slammed the flat of her hand on the table, holding back a frustrated scream. No Bond, no Holt, and no closer to using Aegis. And now no Ives.

The battle hadn’t even begun but she had the sinking feeling that they were already at a disadvantage.

—

Taron couldn’t feel his hands when he woke up.

He groggily sat up and felt his knees pop as he drew them up to his chest. He was in the boot of an SUV, tucked behind the back seat in the small, turpentine carpeted space. Looking out of the window he saw nothing but darkness, a testament to the time of night or their isolation. But the vehicle was moving.

A woman with dark brown hair sat in the row of seats in front of him and he squinted at her.

“Holt?”

The woman turned around and he realized his mistake. Madeleine Swann shot him an irritated look. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Sorry about that,” he replied coolly, examining his wrists. The handcuffs were tighter than they were in the interrogation room, digging into his wrists and chafing his skin, cutting off circulation just a bit.

The interrogation room. It was coming back to him now.

Alaric stormed in only minutes after Moneypenny departed, leaving him to his accepted fate. There was no kindness in his father’s eyes, no disappointment, just exasperation tinged with disgust. He looked at him as if he was something foul he’d stepped on. Not like he was his own son. The child he named and partially raised. 

For years Taron strove for his affection, any sort of approval. Decades was more accurate. It was as if he never grew up in that aspect. Never learned his lesson. Stones didn’t bleed. Nor did they care. 

He was a fool, constantly returning to his folly. But that was no longer. He had his wake up call. 

He was done being the fool. 

There were no words exchanged between the two. They weren’t needed, it was all said in a look.

_No more. I won’t be your pawn a moment longer. I quit._

A silent understanding was reached. No further pretense was required. Holmes no longer had to play father. Taron was no longer the blindly obedient son.

For the first time in years, they looked at each other and were themselves. Their real selves. A cold man and the one who pretended to be so.

Holmes beckoned behind him and Swann entered the room, withdrawing a syringe from a small velvet pouch.

He recalled nothing after that. Not until now. The present. Handcuffed in the back of a car. An assassin glaring at him.

“Is he awake?” a smooth male voice inquired from the passenger seat.

“Yes, sir,” Swann replied, looking away from Taron. “Are we pulling over soon?”

The man laughed. “Are you entertaining thoughts of disposing of his body in a ditch? Come now, Swann, that’s not how we treat our own.”

Ives soon recognized the voice.

Ransom Novak.

“He’s not going to be much use to us now,” another man growled. His father.

Ives closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the vehicle, allowing the hum of the road to cloud his thoughts. Whatever Swann drugged him with was still in his system.

“On the contrary,” Novak sounded pleased. “I have something rather interesting planned for him.”

Darkness claimed him once again.

He dreamt of waterfalls and chasms.


	18. Sins of Father

Despite being unable to observe his usual view from the glass walls of his office, Ransom Novak immensely favored nighttime. It seemed to be the time when the world was most off guard, slowly letting down its defenses, just enough for him to slip away. 

And there was MI6. Encouraging the world to sleep with one eye open. 

Still, he found his solace in the night. It was a separate world where one could sort through the chaos and absurdities, or perhaps inflate them. For Novak, however, it was not a place to hide. It was a place where he thrived. 

Business went just fine before Remus Saoi caught wind of him. 

He remembered the day well, the day one of his moles in Six had something of note to report: an investigation was being launched, pending double-oh involvement. On  _ him.  _ One of his hackers had gotten a bit careless. Left behind more of a trace than they should have. 

Novak shot him at his desk. The only successful execution the man could have partaken in was his death. 

The key to succeeding was to remove any personal or emotional complications from the equation, but it became so difficult to exclude them from the game. Especially when the players were so  _ interesting _ . Saoi was exceptional. Incredibly intelligent. Unbelievably vulnerable. He held himself with strength, but the insecurities were layered beneath. The anxiety beneath the casual confidence. 

The rage behind the calm. 

He’d made him snap that day on the bridge. The day the quartermaster nearly killed him. Novak smirked, leaning his shoulder against the glass as he stared at the city below. That was the moment he knew he had Saoi where he wanted him. Emotional enough to be manipulated. Forced into hiding for years, handicapping the investigation. Marks, that resilient bastard, trailed him like a second shadow, leading to more than one close call. 

The agent had to be removed. All of them had to. The seven team members. M’s seven archangels. Cast down from the sky in furious flames, forsaken and sent to their deaths, delivered from mother minister to the hands of darkness. 

Novak sighed wistfully. He would have loved to be there for it. Witness his own handiwork. It was rare that his endeavours yielded physically visible results. He traded mainly in numbers. Digits and bytes. Electronic whispers, silver tongued persuasion. Still, he had his recording. The voices of chaos and fear before the crash cut it off. 

Still, he got his satisfaction where he could. It was not long ago that he stood outside of Icarus Saoi’s flat, walking the path the quartermaster took and reaching the same destination at a separate time. Standing, watching from afar until the light behind the curtains shut off. It was incredibly tempting to detach himself from the shadows and knock on the door. Returning, in that imagined moment, to a winter day in 1997. He was just a boy then, but grown up enough to answer the door in his father’s place. Remus called him Quinn before promptly pushing him out of the foyer with the same intensity in his eyes as that of a soldier tackling someone out of the line of fire. Quinn. Icarus. Russ. Q. Quartermaster. Strange, the passage of time. Novak observed it well, striding across the field of ashes he had laid out. 

That same night, he left a wreath on the patch of earth that sat before a marble headstone reading: “Edgar Allen Marks”, followed by the dates in which his life was contained, concluding with “beloved husband, son, and godfather”. Remus Saoi’s was rather similar. He supposed there was only so much deviation from those popular eulogic phrases that could occur given the limited space and commonalities in lives. Everyone was at least someone’s child. That much you could definitely lay claim to as you stood on the threshold between planes, evicted from the world you knew, thrust into the unknown. He could. And that was the extent of it. 

He wouldn’t want it any other way. He was the man in the high tower, the silent puppeteer. Someone who walked without a footprint, tipped balances no one knew existed, whispered into ears that deafened themselves to most others. 

Looking over at Blofeld who stood in the corner, engaged in hushed conversation with Alaric Holmes, Novak now understood him a little better. He once mocked him for making things so personal with Bond, but he saw the rewards it reaped. He saw it over a decade ago when M’s tin soldiers fell down. Saw it ever since in the ripples. It felt immensely satisfying. Where artists found a thrill in creating, he found his in doing the opposite. Dismantling, debilitating, destroying. Riches led to prestige, prestige to power. 

And there he stood. The ruler of an unseen empire. 

It had its frailties. One of them was currently cuffed to a chair in front of his desk. 

There were no lights on in the room, yet it was awash with light from the city around them, street lamps and the lights of buildings and businesses that never seemed to dim. It was this that illuminated the stony faced young man he was striding toward.

Taron Ives was a true disappointment. His potential shone like a beacon, but it had turned into a flare which slowly burned out as time passed. Ephemeral in its brilliance. He was no doubt the topic of the intense words being shared by Holmes and Blofeld, unheard, but displayed in the agitated hand gestures and displeased expressions. What Novak mourned was the waste of talent. He sat on the edge of his desk and studied Ives’ face, looking for the imperceptible fissures in his expression. The man was a true actor, he played his role so well, just not well enough for himself. He was missing the loyalty which was ever so essential. The sense of purpose, the drive. 

Holmes was to blame as well. He groomed him for the part as best he could, but that was all. He failed in instilling fraternity. Made Taron a tool rather than a comrade. That was the trouble with family. Ives was blindly attached, only following his father’s orders out of some misguided sense of obedience. Holmes, on the other hand, did nothing to successfully maintain the exchange. Ives never got what he wanted out of it. Alaric was too careless and betrayed his trust. The Helsinki business was slippery and Holmes should have known that. It was not handled as well as it could have been and it seemed that Novak was the one to feel the effects of this. 

The past could be revived, but not revised. Hence, the meeting. 

“Do you know who I am?” Novak asked Ives, his voice ceasing the bickering occuring on the other side of the room. 

“Christopher Acerbi, sir,” was the tight lipped response. 

“Oh, I think we’re long past that little charade, don’t you? You know my name.”

Taron shifted, the cuffs dragging against the arm of the chair. “Why ask a question you know I have the answer to, then?”

Novak shrugged and looked away. “I was curious as to what you’d say. Apparently you still think you have a chance. I’d get that out of my head if I were you, I’m not in a mood to play someone else’s pathetic games.” 

Ives craned his head to follow Alaric’s movements as he and Blofeld pulled up chairs alongside the desk. Alaric stared back, unblinking, his lip curled with distaste. His son looked away hastily, throat bobbing. 

Novak smiled.  _ There he is. The blind son.  _

“What did you tell them about us?” Blofeld leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. The dim lighting only served to conceal the unmarked portion of his face due to his position, throwing his scarred side into focus. One could assume that Blofeld’s other eye consisted of that same marred tissue, chalky and blind, the darkness leaving it unknown. 

To his credit, Taron made a face, staring at him with some resilience. “If you’re already going to kill me there’s no use in further incriminating myself.” 

“You make bold assumptions,” Novak seemed amused but Ives couldn’t place why. “What makes you think we’re going to kill you?”

Taron struggled against the bonds that secured him to the chair as a demonstration of his point, doing his best to glare. “This is what you do to everyone then, is it?”

Ransom Novak wasn’t exactly physically imposing. But he was terrifying to look at. It was akin to staring at a grenade. Even with the pin it was a fearful specimen and your mind immediately filled with all the ways the situation could go wrong. 

That was why Taron had to look away when Novak stared back at him. Folded like a deck of cards. 

“I told them general information about Novak’s operating style,” he said carefully, trying to protect himself as much as possible. Slowly tiptoeing around the invisible minefield. “Enough to get them worried to the point of stupidity. Bond and Holt are on a wild goose chase, they’re searching for you in Austria.”

“And Dutch?” Blofeld interjected, stepping away from Holmes, voice vaguely monstrous. “Where is he?”

“I said Austria.” Taron repeated blankly. “Austrian. Dutch is Netherlands.”

Novak gave him another one of those stares, his hand gravitating toward the gun on the desk. “Test my patience again. We’ll see what happens. Answer him.”

“We haven’t had any contact with Dutch since the night of the Paris auction,” Blofeld said, folding his hands behind his back and planting himself near Novak. “But we managed to trace him to the Louvre where Bond and his merry band of saviours had their reunion.”

Ives tried to hold his hands up in his defense but they wouldn’t budge, secured by the cuffs. “I don’t know about anyone called Dutch, alright? All I know is what I heard from Bond. They met with a rogue operative who handed over Aegis and Holt, then kidnapped their quartermaster.” The last bit was a tactful lie. But wasn’t most of it?

He’d clearly said something impactful because Novak closed his eyes slowly, shoulders tensing beneath his suit. It felt like the air before a storm, the atmosphere slowly charged with ozone, rich with potential lightning. Blofeld shrank away from him and Alaric stood stock still at the wall he had not budged from. 

“Ernst,” Novak breathed out of his nose, steadily touching his feet to the floor and standing. The veins stood out in his neck, his jaw clenched tight, words escaping with difficulty as they slipped past the muffling repressed rage. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ tell me that Dutch has gone rogue.”

“I don’t-” but Blofeld immediately clammed up. His obliviousness would only bury him. 

“You  _ promised  _ me that he was reliable.” Novak growled. “He was  _ your man, Blofeld.”  _

“And he was!” Blofeld tried for a reassuring smile, but it did nothing to mask his nervousness. 

“Yes. Until the moment he wasn’t, it seems. Not only have we lost our hostage, but we no longer have the key to our bloody success.” 

Ives held his breath, feeling like he was about to witness an absolute mauling. 

Novak turned to Holmes, masterfully reigning himself in and tucking his anger behind his well-crafted facade of calm. “You. You were there, Director General. Were you or your son able to retrieve it?” 

“We- well,  _ I tried,”  _ Holmes blustered, his confidence being leached away by Ransom’s parasitic eyes. “But-”

“But?” he prompted, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping several degrees. 

“The agent destroyed it.” Holmes spat out the acidic words that burned his mouth, now free of them. “Shot the damned thing to kingdom come. It’s gone, Ransom. I’m sorry.” 

A beat of suffocating silence. 

“Right,” Novak said tightly. “I suppose you’re done here, then.”

Alaric looked relieved. He gave a polite nod and turned toward the door. 

Taron barely saw it out of the corner of his eye as he watched his father leave, but there was no mistaking the muffled gunshot that rang beside his ear. He wasn’t able to look away in time and didn’t miss the sight of the once familiar man falling to the ground, his light hair stained dark with blood. 

Dead. A testament to those who dared disappoint him, struck down by the ever looming sceptre. 

Ives could do nothing but stare mutely at the floor and try not to become too nauseous. 

Novak placed his gun back on the desk and let loose a frustrated yell, causing Ives to flinch and sending Blofeld inching away. 

He breathed heavily through his nose and slammed his hand on the desk before moving around it to collapse in his chair as if the sudden burst of anger had drained him. But instead he looked as if he was trying his damndest to contain the rage. It had gone nowhere. 

“What do we know about Dutch? Hm?” Novak aimed this question at Blofeld, leaning back in his seat as if nothing had changed, picking up the conversation as easily as he’d picked up the gun. 

“He’s crippled in some way. He has a vendetta against us, intimate knowledge about Aegis, and found a way to not only contact Bond and his quartermaster, but gained their trust. Convinced Agent Holt that he wasn’t her enemy. A former agent of theirs, presumably?” Blofeld suggested. “Or a current one. But he would have to be deep cover, our background checks were clear and he came with good recommendations.” 

Novak nodded thoughtfully, uncoiling himself and rising from the chair, crossing over to the window and staring out at the city as if it would decide to reveal to him some previously unknown secret. 

“He gave them Aegis but took the quartermaster,” he mused aloud. “Gave up his chance to personally take us out. There’s something to it.”

“It’s possible that he never knew how to get it to work.” Blofeld shrugged, taking a pen from the desk and twirling it between his fingers idly before setting it back down. “Or didn’t care what happened to it, so long as he got what he wanted.” 

“Him.” 

Ives watched as Novak turned around, smiling broadly. 

“Taron, it seems your friends at Six have taken to playing with dead things.” The man moved like a shadow slid across walls, silently and swiftly, until the gun was level with the agent’s eyes. “Who is it?”

_ Shit.  _ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We raided a safe house outside of St. Petersburg a few years back. I  _ know,  _ Ives. And do you know how that is?” 

He pulled a scrap of paper from his desk, all small print with black and white boxes. A crossword puzzle, only half filled in. Words like ‘apiary’, ‘ninhydrin’, ‘Hallgrímskirkja’. 

The edges were crusted with blood.

“This is Remus Saoi’s.” Novak hissed, his face alight with victory. “We  _ found this  _ there _. Someone  _ from the crash is alive.” 

“I don’t know,” Ives shook his head, allowing his voice to crack. “I swear, I don’t know anything about that. M would. Not me.” 

Ransom lowered the gun and shot the seat of the chair between his legs. Ives let out a startled cry and bit through his lip, wood splinters embedded in his trousers, stabbing at his thighs. Novak stalked away, calling to Blofeld. “Time to hunt a Minister.” 

Blofeld unlocked Ives’ cuffs and smiled. “Take some time to say goodbye to father dearest. Don’t get any ideas.”

The lock on the door clicked and Ives slowly stood, his eyes trailing numbly around the room until they fell on Holmes’ body, crumpled and bloodied, discarded like a chess pawn. 

_ His father. _

Bile rose from his throat as he saw the pool of blood, black as an oil spill. He looked away and shook his hands out, trying to regain some feeling in them before moving into action. 

Taron tugged his left shoe off and opened the hollow sole, removing his hidden phone from the compartment some Q-Branch lackey had designed for him under direct order of M. Because there was only one number on the phone. 

He quickly pressed himself into a corner of the room and called the lone contact, his heart rate climbing with each ring. 

_ “Thank you for calling Mansfield Contractors, this is Joanna speaking. How may I help you?”  _

“It’s Ives. ‘Elsinore’.” 

A pause.  _ “Can you repeat that?” _

Taron sighed and rubbed his eyes, his hands shaking. “Elsinore, Eames, bleeding Elsinore. You need to leave. Now.”

_ “Are- you’re certain?” _

“I’m a stone’s throw away from being compromised and Novak’s on the warpath searching for Dutch and Saoi so yes, I’m certain!” he spat, watching the door warily. “I have two agents en route, Bond and Holt, give them half an hour of archive access and hit the road, all of you. I can’t trust that they won’t have been followed.”

_ “Don’t you think it’s a little preemptive? Novak isn’t even terminated yet, he-” _

“Joanna, he  _ knows.”  _

_ “Shit. How much?” _

“He knows he’s looking for one or more survivors and that Six has them in a safehouse somewhere. He knows Dutch is one of them.”

Voices sounded outside of the door. 

“It’s almost over,” Ives said hurriedly. Almost out of time. “He’s getting arrogant and that’s when he makes his mistakes. Just get out of there fast, it’s best I don’t know where. I don’t think they believed me when I said I didn’t know anything, I can’t be a liability. Not with this. I won’t risk it.” 

_ “Thank you,”  _ Joanna said.  _ “Stay safe.” _

_ Unlikely.  _ “You too.”

-

Madeleine Swann detached her microphone from the door and tugged the cords of the earbuds, removing them from her ears. She’d heard what she needed. Dutch. Saoi. Two agents.

"You were right," Blofeld looked at Novak, chuckling. "That was clever."

"Save your compliments for when we dispose of him." Novak replied brusquely, straightening his coat. "Swann, I want you on the first flight to wherever that safehouse is. No survivors. Not anymore."

Her crimson lips curled into a poisonous smile. "Yes, sir."

If James Bond really was one of them she’d have no problem tracking him down within the hour. Leave Ives to the sharks. 

There wasn’t a place on earth where Bond could hide from her.

 


End file.
